Page 57 of Holly & Hemlock
The first contact of his tongue is enough to make me gasp. The air is so thick with moisture that every nerve is awake, every patch of skin alive to the smallest change. Lane’s mouth is perfect—rough and gentle, slow at first, then ramping up as I grab his hair and guide him to where I need him most.
I lose the ability to be quiet. The noises I make are animal, ugly, but Lane only works harder, as if he is determined to wring every last sound out of me.
When I come, it is not like the first time, or the second. It is bigger, messier, a flood that leaves me shaking against the table, legs useless and slack.
Lane stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses me again. I taste myself on his tongue and bite his lower lip, just to see if he’ll flinch. He doesn’t. If anything, it spurs him on.
He fumbles with his own jeans, too impatient to bother with the button. His cock is heavy, flushed, leakingalready. He strokes it once, twice, and then lines up, lifting me onto the table with a single effortless motion.
“Ready?” he asks, eyes dark and wild.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pull him closer in answer.
He enters me in one long, slow push, filling me completely. The shock of it, the stretch and burn, is exquisite. I dig my nails into his back, wanting to mark him, wanting something that will last longer than the hour.
Lane fucks me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Each thrust is deep, measured, designed to undo me. The table wobbles under us, seedlings shaking in their trays, water spilling onto the concrete. He doesn’t talk at first, but now, with every snap of his hips, he mutters things into my neck, voice cracked and desperate.
“Wanted this since the day you walked in. Fuck, you’re so tight, Nora. Never gonna let you go. This is what you do to me. Make me crazy. Make me want to ruin you. This cunt is mine. So perfect for me. So perfect for this cock. I’m never going to stop fucking you. You were made for this.”
Each filthy promise lands somewhere between threat and prayer, and I answer them all with yes, yes, please.
He pulls out, turns me, bends me over the table. The metal is cold on my breasts, a shock that makes me clench around nothing. Lane’s hands grip my hips, spreading me wide, and he slides back in—harder, deeper, all the restraint gone.
He lasts longer than I expect, but when he comes, it’s with a guttural moan that rattles the glass overhead. I feel the heat of him inside me, a final possessive claim that leaves no room for doubt.
We stay like that for a minute—bodies tangled, the smell of sex and sweat and green things heavy in the air. Lane leansforward, pressing his forehead to my shoulder, breathing hard.
“You’re ours. Whether you want to be, or not. You are,” he says, and the concern in his voice almost breaks me. He means his, and Larkin’s. It’s supposed to be the three of us and neither of us question it.
We right ourselves, slowly, limbs reluctant to uncouple. I find my jeans, pull them on, and Lane shrugs into his sweat-damp shirt. He looks at me with something like wonder, as if unsure how this is real.
I step into his space, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek on his chest. His heart is pounding, wild and beautiful.
“This changes things,” I say.
He nods. “I hope so.”
We stay like that for a while, until the light shifts and the condensation on the glass begins to run in rivers, pooling at our feet.
I am not sure what happens next. But for now, we are together, our breath clouding the air, our bodies marked by the memory of each other.
Outside, the frost is melting. Inside, the greenhouse is quiet, waiting for whatever I decide to do.
Would a life of passion with Lane and Larkin really be so bad? Even if we’re bound here? We’d be bound together.
I breathe in Lane’s scent.
I have never felt more claimed, or more free.
17
The Legend of Holly & Hemlock
Larkin is in the library, occupying a chair so aggressively Victorian it seems to have been bred, not made, for the suppression of comfort. He sits at an angle, one ankle crossed over a knee, spine straight as a verdict. A book—unread, unimportant—is draped face-down on the armrest, its spine bristling with orphaned bookmarks. Larkin himself is immaculate: white shirt, collar open but not careless, hair swept back with enough force to signal both vanity and the will to dominate. He looks less like a person than a photograph of a person, all edges and intent.
He doesn’t look up as I enter, but the shift in his posture is immediate. The muscles at the hinge of his jaw stand out. His hands, which are too elegant for fists, rest on the arms of the chair, flexing at the first knuckle.
“Afternoon,” I say, in the tone I used to reserve for truant gallery directors.
