Chapter 160: Morning Feast
The deep, dreamless peace was shattered by a sensation both foreign and intimately familiar—a soft, psychic tug at the core of his being. It wasn’t a sound, but a flavor in his mind: protection. It felt like a sturdy door closing, a vault locking, a warm hand on his shoulder. Camille.
Bruce opened his eyes. The twins were still draped over him, Freya’s red hair fanned across his chest, Anya’s dark head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. The pale dawn had ripened into proper morning, shafts of sunlight cutting through the room, gilding the dust motes. The tug came again, insistent. A summoning.
He carefully extracted himself, their sleeping forms murmuring in protest. He stood, stretching, feeling the pleasant weariness in his muscles, the ghost of spent passions humming under his skin. He pulled on a pair of soft linen pants from a chair and padded silently from the room.
The hallway was warm, alive with the quiet hum of the house. He followed the psychic thread, a golden cord only he could see, winding through the passages. It led him not to the main master suite he shared with Camille, but to the Sun Room—a wide, circular chamber with a vaulted glass ceiling, currently drenched in morning light. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine from climbing vines and fresh coffee.
She was there. Camille. But she wasn’t alone.
Camille lay on her side on a wide, sun-drenched divan, her generous curves poured into a simple silk chemise that did little to conceal the heavy swell of her breasts or the proud jut of her nipples. Her eyes were closed, a small smile on her lips. And straddling her face, facing Bruce as he entered, was Lena.
Lena, Sombra, was a vision of youthful wickedness. She was naked save for a thin silver chain around her waist, her dark skin glowing in the sunlight, every muscle of her taut stomach and lithe thighs defined. Her hips moved in a slow, grinding circle, her wetness glistening on Camille’s lips. Camille’s tongue was out, licking and sucking with a lazy, practiced rhythm. Lena’s head was thrown back, her long black hair cascading down her back, her eyes slitted in pleasure.
“There he is,” Lena purred, not missing a beat of her movement. Her dark eyes locked onto Bruce’s. “Sleeping beauty finally wakes.”
Camille’s eyes fluttered open. She didn’t stop her ministrations, but her gaze, warm and knowing, found Bruce’s. A muffled sound of contentment vibrated from her throat against Lena’s flesh.
Bruce felt his body respond instantly, the linen pants doing nothing to hide the swift, hardening bulge. The sight was a punch to his gut—his wife, so confidently servicing their devotee, so utterly in her element.
“She said you’d be exhausted,” Lena said, her voice a husky tease. Her hand came down to cup Camille’s cheek, guiding her mouth more firmly against her clit. “Said we should let you rest. But I was hungry.” She rolled her hips. “And your wife makes the best breakfast.”
Bruce moved forward, the sun warm on his bare chest. He knelt beside the divan, his hand coming to rest on the sublime curve of Camille’s hip. He leaned down and kissed her temple, breathing in her scent—vanilla and her own unique spice.
“You should have woken me,” he said, his voice rough.
Camille pulled her mouth away with a soft, wet sound. She grinned up at him, her lips slick. “You had a long night. We were just… starting without you.”
Lena lifted herself off Camille’s face, kneeling on the divan. A string of moisture connected her to Camille’s mouth for a second before breaking. “Now you’re here,” she said, her gaze dropping to the tent in his pants. “Time for the main course.”
With a swift, fluid motion, Camille rolled onto her stomach. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to Bruce. The silk chemise was rucked up around her waist, framing the glorious, full hemispheres of her ass. She glanced back over her shoulder, her expression one of playful challenge. “Well? Don’t keep a girl waiting.”
Lena shifted, moving to kneel in front of Camille’s face again. “Come on, mami,” she whispered, her fingers tangling in Camille’s hair. “Finish your meal. He’ll take care of the rest.”
Camille dove forward, her mouth finding Lena’s waiting heat once more with an eager groan.
Bruce shed the linen pants. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, thick and heavy. The morning light painted it in stark relief. He moved behind Camille, his hands smoothing over the lush warmth of her ass. He spread her cheeks, revealing her puckered, tight hole and the glistening, swollen lips of her pussy below, already wet from anticipation.
He spat into his palm, a coarse, efficient gesture. He slicked himself, the sound obscenely loud in the sun-filled room. He positioned the broad, purple head of his cock at her tightest entrance.
“Ready?” he growled.
Camille’s answer was muffled against Lena’s core, but her body spoke for her. She pushed back, a sharp, insistent movement.
He thrust forward.
There was no slow entrance, no gentle stretching. He buried himself in one brutal, deep stroke, sheathing his entire monstrous length inside her ass in a single, searing motion.
Camille screamed, the sound vibrating into Lena’s pussy. Her body went rigid, her back arching dramatically, her fingers clawing at the divan’s fabric. The invasion was absolute, a breathtaking conquest. He held himself deep, feeling her inner muscles clench and flutter around him in a chaotic spasm of shock and intense pleasure.
“Fuck! Oh, god, Bruce!” she cried out when she could finally draw breath.
“That’s it,” Lena encouraged, her own breath hitching as she ground against Camille’s mouth. “Take it, mami. Take all of him.”
Bruce began to move. He pulled back almost entirely, leaving just the tip, before slamming home again. Each thrust was a piston stroke, a deep, punishing invasion that rocked Camille’s entire body forward into Lena’s. The wet, slapping sound of flesh on flesh mixed with Camille’s choked sobs of pleasure and Lena’s sharp, encouraging cries.
He set a relentless, deep pace. His hands held her hips in a vice grip, his own hips driving with a primal force. This wasn’t the tender reclamation of Ketut, or the fierce claiming of Susan, or the perfect, practiced synergy of the twins. This was something foundational. This was Camille, his anchor, his goddess of protection, taking his rawest, most brutal power into the deepest part of herself and not just weathering it, but demanding it.
“Harder!” she screamed, the word distorted. “Fucking wreck me, Bruce! Make me feel it tomorrow!”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming savage. The divan creaked in protest. Lena was now shouting, her climax triggered by the violent rocking of Camille’s face against her, by the sheer erotic force of the scene. “Yes! Oh god, I’m coming! Mami, your mouth!”
Lena’s orgasm hit her, her body stiffening, her head tossing back as a raw, sharp cry tore from her throat. Camille drank it in, her own moans of pleasure vibrating against Lena’s sensitive flesh, sending waves through the younger woman’s convulsions.
Bruce felt Camille’s ass clench around him like a fist, a rhythmic, milking pressure that pulled at his own release. He drove into her one final, deep time, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax erupted. He came with a guttural roar, pumping hot jets deep into her bowels, marking her, filling her. The pulse of his orgasm seemed to go on forever, syncing with the last tremors of Camille’s own shaking release.
He collapsed forward, bracing himself on his arms over her back, spent. Beneath him, Camille shuddered, her face still buried in Lena’s now-quiet thigh. Lena slumped to the side, panting, a dazed, blissful smile on her face.
For long moments, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant call of a bird outside the glass ceiling.
Slowly, Bruce withdrew. Camille winced, a soft, satisfied sound. She rolled onto her side, pulling Lena down with her into a tangle of limbs on the sun-warmed cushions. Bruce joined them, lying facing Camille. He brushed a damp curl from her forehead.
“Protection, huh?” he said softly.
She smiled, a lazy, sated curl of her lips. “Sometimes the best way to protect what’s yours is to let it in. All the way in.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Even the ugly, brutal parts. Especially those.”
Lena giggled, nestling her head against Camille’s shoulder. “I’m never eating actual breakfast again.”
They lay there, bathed in sunlight, the three of them connected by sweat and scent and spent passion. The psychic hum of the house felt different to Bruce now—calmer, more fortified. Camille’s power, their bond, was a bedrock. He felt a profound gratitude, a settling in his soul.
The moment was broken by a soft, clearing of a throat from the doorway.
The moment was broken by a soft clearing of a throat from the doorway.
Ketut stood there, a faint, knowing smile on her lips, her dark eyes taking in the scene of tangled, sunlit limbs without judgment. The scent of sex and sweat was thick in the air. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice a calm counterpoint to the room’s heavy stillness. “But Sophia is in the gym. She wants to know if you’re coming to training.”
Bruce didn’t move from his place beside Camille. He let out a long, contented breath, his hand resting on the curve of Camille’s hip. He smiled, a slow, genuine thing that reached his hazel eyes. “Tell Sophia I think we all need a day of relaxation,” he said, his voice rough from recent use but warm. “It’s been stressful. Grab everyone and the kids. Let’s drink some drinks, grill some meat, and hang out in the pool.”
Ketut’s smile widened, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them. She gave a slight nod. “I’ll spread the word.” Her gaze lingered on Camille and Lena for a moment, a soft empathy radiating from her. Then she turned and left, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.
Camille stirred, stretching like a satisfied cat. “A pool day sounds perfect,” she murmured, her voice husky. She traced a finger down Bruce’s chest. “No gods, no duties. Just us.”
Lena propped herself up on an elbow, her eyes sparkling. “I call dibs on rubbing sunscreen on Briana.” She winked. “She owes me after last time.”
Bruce chuckled, the sound vibrating through Camille’s body where she still lay against him. The psychic weight of his role, the constant hum of cosmic responsibility, faded into a pleasant background noise. Here, in this sunlit room with the scent of his wife on his skin and the easy laughter of his loved ones, he was just Bruce.
He rolled off the divan, his body feeling pleasantly used. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand to Camille. “Let’s go tell the others before Sophia has everyone doing burpees.”
The house began to stir with a different, lighter energy. The message propagated from Ketut through the subtle, empathetic network they all shared—a feeling of invitation, of release. In her room, Susan Delgado looked up from cleaning a carved wooden horse, her freckled face breaking into a sunny smile. She set the figure down and headed for her bathing suit.
Jasmine, in the pilot’s lounge reviewing navigation charts, felt the shift. She pushed the papers aside with a decisive sweep of her hand. “Fuck it,” she said to the empty room, her Jamaican accent warm with anticipation. “Time for some sun on this ass.”
In the garden, Isabella was tending to a rare, glowing herb that pulsed with soft light. She felt the collective decision settle over her like a warm breeze. She brushed the soil from her hands, her ocean-blue eyes turning toward the main villa. Healing, today, would mean margaritas and laughter.
Sophia, however, was in the gym. She was a symphony of precise motion, her powerful legs driving her through a set of squats under a heavy barbell. The muscles in her back and shoulders coiled and released with perfect form. Ketut appeared at the door, leaning against the frame.
“He says no,” Ketut announced simply.
Sophia racked the weights with a solid clang. She turned, her espresso-dark eyes narrowing. Sweat glistened on her forehead. “He said no to training?” There was no anger, just a sharp curiosity.
“He said we all need a day of relaxation,” Ketut repeated, her empathic senses brushing against Sophia’s focused discipline. “Pool. Drinks. Meat.”
A slow smile broke across Sophia’s face, transforming her fierce concentration into radiant beauty. She grabbed a towel and wiped her neck. “Grilling meat is protein. That’s still functional.” She tossed the towel aside. “Tell him I’ll be there. Just need to shower.”
The twins, Anya and Freya, intercepted the news in the kitchen, where they were raiding the fridge for fruit. They looked at each other, identical sparks of mischief in their violet and green eyes. “Pool party,” Anya said, her voice a singsong tease.
“Waterproof toys?” Freya whispered back, her grin wicked.
By the time Bruce stepped out onto the broad stone patio, the scene was already transforming. The enormous infinity pool, a sheet of liquid turquoise merging with the distant sea, shimmered under the midday sun. Oy the bumbler was chasing a dropped grape along the edge, his gold eyes bright with curiosity. Jake, shirtless and lean, was already hauling a massive stainless steel grill from the shaded outdoor kitchen area, his bombardier eyes squinting against the light.
“Need a hand?” Bruce called out.
Jake grinned, hefting a bag of charcoal with ease. “I got it. You just look important.”
Susannah emerged from the villa, her long curly hair tied up, a simple sarong wrapped around her full figure. She carried a tray laden with glasses and bottles, her movements efficient, warlike in their purpose. “Julianna’s mixing the caipirinhas,” she announced. “She says it’s a Brazilian national emergency if we don’t have them by noon.”
As if summoned, Julianna appeared with a pitcher of the pale green drink, ice clinking, her blue eyes brilliant against her tanned skin. “It’s true. The penalty is severe.”
Laughter bubbled up, light and unforced. Lena and Briana were already by the pool, their stunning bodies slick with oil as they debated the merits of various sunscreen SPFs. Briana’s laugh, warm and full, echoed off the stone. Astrild stood slightly apart, her ethereal beauty almost painful to look at directly, her hair like contained night. She watched the human chaos with a soft, tentative wonder, as if remembering what joy sounded like.
Lyra flowed out from the shadows of a palm grove, her violet eyes drinking in the scene. Power, vast and null, hung around her like an invisible cloak, but her expression was one of deep longing. She looked at Bruce, then at the group, and gave a single, graceful nod—an acceptance of the invitation.
Camille pressed a cold beer into Bruce’s hand. She stood beside him, her body warm against his arm, watching their family assemble. “See?” she said softly. “This is what we protect.”
He put his arm around her, pulling her close. The simple weight of her against him felt more anchoring than any throne. The kids—a mix of his own and those from other worlds who had found refuge here—splashed into the pool with shrieks of delight. The smell of charcoal catching fire, of citrus and salt, filled the air.
For this one day, the Universe would have to protect itself. Here, there was only the sun, the water, the taste of limes and salt, and the sound of his people, alive and laughing. Bruce took a long drink from his beer and felt the last knot of tension unravel. He was home.
The laughter around the pool faded into a soft, contented hum. Ice clinked in glasses. The scent of searing meat and coconut oil hung in the warm air. Bruce watched, his back against the warm stone, as Susannah deftly flipped burgers and Julianna animatedly debated football tactics with Jake. Oy rested his snout on Bruce’s foot, twitching in sleep.
This was the fragile, perfect core of it all. Not the throne, not the cosmic weight, but this: Briana’s head resting on Lena’s stomach as they floated, their fingers loosely intertwined. The easy way Sophia handed Astrild a drink, their hands brushing, a silent communication passing between the goddess of strength and the ancient, starlit being. Anya and Freya whispering, their heads close together, undoubtedly plotting some watery mischief.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Camille’s voice was a low murmur beside him. She adjusted the strap of her bikini top, her brown skin glowing in the sun.
“That I’d vaporize a galaxy for this,” he said, the words simple and absolute.
Her smile was his answer. She took his hand, her thumb tracing the knuckles. The peace was a living thing, settling over the patio like a blanket.
It shattered in a single, breathless instant.
Jasmine, who had been laughing at something Ketut said, suddenly went rigid. Her mug of rum punch slipped from her fingers, shattering on the flagstones. Her eyes, usually bright with flecks of gold, went wide and vacant, pupils dilating to swallow the iris. A guttural sound, part choke part scream, tore from her throat.
“Jas?” Bruce was already moving, pushing off from the wall.
Before he could reach her, her head snapped back at an impossible angle. Her spine arched, lifting her off the lounger. A silent, violent seizure locked her muscles. Through their bond, Bruce didn’t feel pain. He felt a terrifying acceleration. Time wasn’t passing; it was shredding. Centuries condensed into seconds inside her, a whirling vortex of compressed chronology that threatened to unravel her very cells.
“She’s skipping!” Lyra’s voice cut through the panic, sharp and clear. The ancient being was at Jasmine’s side in a blur, her violet eyes now pools of absolute black as she reached for the null space around the event. “Her power is destabilizing! Bruce, you have to ground her!”
“How?” His hands hovered over Jasmine’s thrashing form. He could feel the chaotic energy radiating from her like heat from a forge.
“Fuck, I don’t know! Connect to her! Physically!” Lyra’s voice strained as she tried to contain the temporal shockwave.
The theory flashed in his mind—a circuit. A diversion. To pull the excess, catastrophic energy into himself and earth it. He turned, his gaze sweeping the terrified faces of his family. “Sophia! Susannah! Hold her down. Gently. Don’t let her hurt herself.”
They moved without question, their training overriding their fear. Sophia pinned Jasmine’s shoulders with a firm, steady pressure, her goddess-given strength an unmovable anchor. Susannah took her legs, her face a mask of fierce concentration.
Bruce looked at Jasmine’s contorted face, her beautiful features twisted in silent agony. He made a decision. It was crude. It was visceral. It was the most direct conduit he could think of.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, then ripped her bikini bottoms aside.
He didn’t prepare her. There was no time for tenderness, only necessity. He freed his own cock, already hardening not from desire but from the surging, frantic energy in the air. He spat into his palm, a hurried and messy lubrication, and positioned himself at her entrance. She was dry, tight with tension.
He drove into her with one hard, deep thrust.
Jasmine’s back arched off the lounger, a raw, torn scream finally escaping her lips. But it wasn’t a scream of violation. It was a release. As he buried himself inside her, he opened himself completely. He became a lightning rod.
The runaway temporal energy—the sensation of a million sunrises and sunsets crashing through her psyche—surged out of her. It flowed into him along their physical connection, a torrent of distorted time. He saw flashes: Jasmine as an old woman on a porch, a young girl braiding her hair, a corpse turning to dust, a newborn drawing its first breath. All of it at once. It was a crescendo of existential noise that would have vaporized a mortal mind.
He gritted his teeth, taking it. His body trembled with the strain, his cock buried to the hilt in her clenching heat. He could feel her orgasm building, not from pleasure, but from the catastrophic overflow of power being siphoned away. It crested and broke in a series of violent, racking spasms that squeezed him mercilessly.
He fucked her through it. His thrusts were not for pleasure, but for stability. Deep, grounding strokes to anchor her fleeing spirit to the present, to the solid reality of his body claiming hers. The slap of skin was a brutal metronome against the chaos.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice strained. “Give it to me. Let it go.”
Her eyes, wild and unseeing, finally focused on his face. Recognition flooded back, tinged with a shocked, overwhelming awe. Her hands, which had been clawing at the lounger, flew up and locked behind his neck, pulling him down into a desperate, salt-and-rum kissed kiss.
The energy transfer peaked. Bruce felt his own climax ripped from him, a seismic event that was less pleasure and more cosmic correction. He came inside her with a shuddering roar, his seed hot and forceful, a biological anchor thrown into the storm. The last of the temporal feedback loop bled out of them both, leaving behind a profound, trembling silence.
He collapsed on her, spent, still embedded deeply within her. Her legs, released by Susannah, wrapped around his waist, holding him close. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps.
“What…” Jasmine’s voice was a shredded whisper against his ear. “What the hell was that?”
“You tell me,” Bruce rasped, lifting his head to look at her. “You’re the Goddess of Time. What did you see?”
Tears welled in her gold-flecked eyes. “An ending. Not ours. Something… older. A clock stopping.” She swallowed hard, her hands framing his face. “It was coming for us. You… you plugged the hole.”
Lyra, her eyes slowly returning to violet, let out a long, shaky breath. The tension holding the others captive broke. Sophia released Jasmine’s shoulders, her own powerful arms trembling slightly. Susannah stepped back, wiping her brow.
Camille was there then, a damp cloth in her hand. She cleaned Jasmine’s forehead with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the raw scene moments before. “You’re back,” she said softly.
Jasmine nodded, her gaze still locked on Bruce. “I’m back.” She shifted beneath him, wincing. “And you’re still fucking me on a pool lounger in front of everyone.”
A weak, tension-shattering laugh escaped Julianna. It broke the spell. The mundane reality rushed in—the smell of slightly burnt burgers, the distant cry of a gull, the warm sun on their skin.
Bruce slowly withdrew, helping Jasmine sit up. He kept an arm around her, feeling her shiver. “Someone get her a blanket. And a real drink.”
Ketut was already moving, wrapping a thick, soft towel around Jasmine’s shoulders. Her empathic senses were undoubtedly ablaze, but her face showed only calm focus. Isabella approached, her healer’s aura a visible, gentle glow around her hands as she passed them over Jasmine, checking for deeper damage.
“Her chrono-spatial alignment is… traumatic but stable,” Isabella announced after a moment, her brow furrowed. “It’s like she was yanked forward along her own timeline and snapped back. The whiplash is in her soul, not her body.”
Jake, who had watched everything with his gunslinger’s quiet intensity, finally spoke. “Something pulled her.” He looked at Bruce, then at Lyra. “You felt it too, didn’t you? Not an attack on her. A… a symptom. Something bigger just flexed.”
Lyra nodded, her beautiful face grim. “The null shuddered. It’s been quiet since the Dead King fell. This was an echo. But echoes require a recent sound.”
The poolside peace was gone, replaced by a watchful, charged stillness. The threat was no longer abstract. It had reached into their home, into one of their own, and tried to unmake her from the inside out. Bruce looked at his family—his wives, his friends, his ka-tet. Fear was there, in the set of Susan’s jaw, in the way Astrild pulled her starlit hair closer around her.
But under the fear, there was a colder, harder thing. A unity. A readiness.
Bruce stood, pulling Jasmine up with him. He kept her close, her body warm against his side. He met each of their eyes.
“Burn the burgers,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying across the water. “We’re done relaxing.”