Page 45 of Holly & Hemlock
They move me, turn me, lift me as if I weigh nothing. I lose track of whose hands are whose, whose mouth is where. I am dizzy with sensation, with the total lack of control.
At some point, Lane lifts me from the table, carries me to the marble of the sideboard. Larkin sits first, spitting in his hand and soaking his dick with it. Lane positions mein Larkin’s lap, my ass lined up with his cock, and forces me down onto him. I take him deep, the sensation filling me in a way I’ve never experienced before. Lane watches, his hand on my throat, applying just enough pressure to remind me who is in charge, before he joins us, thrusting into my pussy from the front as Larkin fucks my ass from behind.
This is madness, wild, wanton madness, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
It goes on for hours. Or maybe minutes; time has no meaning. The room is a blur of candlelight and shadow, the air thick with sweat and something sweeter.
I watch as Lane’s eyes shift from mine, to behind me. To Larkin’s. He leans forward, kissing me, then moving behind my head to kiss Larkin, too. We’re one now. The three of us. And as their cocks pump into me, and our sweat mingles, and out skin sizzles with each others’ touches, I come again, fierce and frenzied.
“You ready?” Lane asks Larkin.
“Just about,” he says as he leans down to bite my shoulder.
“Let’s fill her up,” he grunts.
“Larkin reaches for Lane’s arm, and they come together, pumping me full of cum, thrusting their pleasure as they groan out in ecstasy.
When it’s over, I’m limp, skin marked with fingerprints and teeth, breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Lane lifts me into his arms, holding me, steadying me, kissing my face with reverence. Larkin is on his back on the floor, laughing, hair wild, chest rising and falling in time with the dying flames.
We do not speak. There are no words for this.
After a while, Lane sets me down, wraps the velvet dress around my body, ties it at the neck with a gentleness thatmakes me want to weep. Larkin finds his shirt, shrugs it on, buttons only the middle three.
Whitby appears at the door, silent as always. She surveys the wreckage—the fallen plates, the wine-stained cloth, the three of us in varying states of undress—and her lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile.
“Tradition,” she says, and closes the door behind her.
Lane leads me from the room, his arm heavy around my waist. Larkin follows, whistling under his breath, a tune I don’t recognize.
The house is quiet now. There is no storm, no wind, only the slow, contented sigh of beams and boards settling into themselves.
I sleep that night in the Blue Room with Lane beside me, an arm slung over my ribs. Larkin lies on the sofa, one foot on the floor, snoring softly.
I dream of the table, the taste of berries the heat of the candles on my bare skin. I dream of hands, of mouths, of the sweet, inevitable loss of self.
In the morning, the house will remember everything.
But for now, I am alive, and the hunger is sated.
13
The Morning After
The dawn seeps in at the seam between curtains, a slow beam of light over the tangled drift of bedsheets. I wake inside a cocoon of velvet and skin and heat, the memory of last night pressed into the arch of my pelvis, the inside of my thigh. The Blue Room is alive with the aftershock—humid and shivery, frost painting the windows, three bodies arranged in a geometry that is obscene and, for now, perfect.
The first thing I register is the weight of Larkin draped half across my hip, his hand slack on the flat of my stomach, his mouth brushing the crown of my shoulder. His breathing is a slow drag, but I feel, before I open my eyes, the rigid length of him inside my pussy, the way he is already moving, sliding slow and deep.
It is not tenderness. He didn’t wake me for it, or ask permission. He took with a persistence of appetite, with hunger that drives him, even in the moments after everything should be over.
Lane is awake, too. He lies on the other side of me, propped on one elbow, watching with eyes that are equalparts judgment and need. His hand is wrapped around his cock, massive fingers barely touching because of his girth.
The storm has receded, but a new pressure builds in the hush—the promise that this is not yet finished, that we are not yet through with each other.
The radiator groans. Larkin nuzzles into the hollow below my ear, his voice so low I feel it more than hear it. "You never stop moving for me, little one. Your cunt loves to please me.”
I flex around him, slow and deliberate, and he gasps, biting down on my shoulder to stifle it. I turn my face toward Lane, and the sound that escapes me is half laugh, half moan.
Lane’s hand finds my breast, his fingers toying with my nipple with the pressure of a clamp. He slides lower, palm cupping the curve of my tit, then farther, past my belly, just above my cunt, his fingers spreading my lips to catch the rhythm of Larkin’s movement. His skin is rough from work, the calluses a living history, and he leaves prints that bloom pink where he touches.
