Page 63 of Holly & Hemlock
The house seems to hold its breath, waiting.
Larkin stands, glass in hand, and offers me the other. “Come here,” he says, the words not quite a command but not a request either.
I go. Lane’s eyes track my movement, the tension in his jaw a silent accusation or plea, I can’t decide which. Larkin guides me to stand before him, the Christmas tree at my back, the fire making a halo around his head.
Larkin finishes the brandy in a single swallow, then sets the glass aside. “Get on your knees,” he says, voice so low I feel it more than hear it.
I kneel. The rug is coarse under my knees, but the warmth from the fire makes it bearable. Larkin’s hand tangles in my hair, the pressure just this side of painful.
He looks at Lane. “Lean back. Go on, since you think I’m the director.”
Lane hesitates, then sits back fully in the chair, his presence still enormous. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire and the distant, animal whine of the wind against the windows.
Larkin steps back, surveying us as if we are a tableau he has spent years arranging. His hands are steady as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing the flat planes of his chest, the fine dusting of hair that trails down to the waistband of his trousers. He lets the shirt fall, then removes the rest, piece by piece, never breaking eye contact.
Lane’s breathing is rough, audible even over the fire. I glance at him, see the way his hands clench and unclench, the way he fights to stay still.
Larkin approaches me first. He strokes my cheek, then traces my jaw with the back of his fingers. “You’re going to suck Lane’s cock,” he says, the words soft as velvet. “And you’re going to swallow every drop, like a good girl.”
My mouth starts to salivate. I glance at Lane, see the propriety and hunger warring in his eyes.
Larkin looks at Lane. “Take it out. Show her.”
Lane’s hands shake as he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans, and frees himself. He is already hard, flushed and angry-looking, the head slick with pre-cum. I swallow, nerves and anticipation making my hands unsteady as I reach out and wrap my fingers around him.
He is so big I have to angle my wrist, and the heat of him is electrifying, alive in a way that makes the rest of the room recede. I look up, meet Lane’s eyes, and see the way his throat works as he swallows hard.
Larkin crouches behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Go slow at first,” he murmurs. “Let him feel everyinch.”
I guide the head of Lane’s cock to my mouth, flick my tongue over the slit, taste salt and something musky, truly Lane. Lane shudders, his hips stuttering forward. I open wider, take him in a little at a time, my lips stretching around the girth. The velvet of his skin contrasts with the hardness beneath, and every time I sink deeper, Lane makes a sound that is guttural, feral.
Larkin’s hands travel down my back, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip at the base. He pushes my dress up over my hips, exposing my thighs, my ass, and I am suddenly aware of how exposed I am, how little stands between my skin and the rest of the world.
Lane’s hand finds the back of my head, cradling it with a care that is at odds with the violence of his need. He doesn’t force, but he doesn’t let go, either.
Larkin slides his hand between my legs, finds me wet and wanting. He strokes with a surgeon’s precision, never losing track of Lane’s rhythm in my mouth. I gasp around Lane’s cock, the sensation of fullness and stimulation overwhelming.
“You look so good like this,” Larkin whispers, and I believe him.
He presses two fingers inside me, curling them until I arch my back, moaning around Lane’s thickness. Lane’s breath comes faster, his free hand gripping the arm of the chair so hard the knuckles go white.
“Don’t stop,” Larkin says, his voice low and urgent.
I don’t. I take Lane deeper, bobbing my head, working my tongue along the sensitive underside. His hips rock in time with me, each thrust a little more desperate, a little less controlled.
Larkin moves to kneel behind me, his own cock hard and leaking, pressing against my bare ass. He grinds against me,not entering, just letting me know he is there, a participant in the act.
Lane’s breathing becomes ragged. “Fuck, her throat feels so good,” he says, thrusting up into me, deeper, making me gag.
Larkin grins, leans in to whisper in my ear. “He’s close. You ready?”
I nod, the motion almost imperceptible.
Larkin pulls my hair back, exposing my throat, my jawline. “Finish him,” he says. “Swallow it all.”
I suck harder, faster, twisting my wrist at the base to add pressure. Lane’s hips jerk, and he comes with a guttural, broken sound, his hands guiding my face as he empties himself into my mouth. The taste is bitter and salty, but I take it, let it slide down my throat, swallowing again and again until he is spent and trembling.
Larkin releases my hair, his hands gentle now, smoothing it back from my face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and I shiver at the approval in his voice.
