Page 64 of Holly & Hemlock
Lane collapses back into the chair, chest heaving, eyes glazed. He looks at me, and for a moment there is only awe.
Larkin stands, cock still hard, and pulls me to my feet. He kisses me, slow and deep, his tongue tasting Lane on my lips. He holds my face in both hands, as if memorizing the shape of it.
“You’re perfect,” he says, and I almost believe it.
The house creaks, settling around us, the Christmas lights glinting off the ornaments and the sweat on our skin. Outside, the snow is falling again, silent and relentless, erasing all evidence of what came before.
Lane is still catching his breath, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than I have ever heard it. “Thank you,” he says. He does not specify which of us he means.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then sit between the two of them on the rug, the heat of the fire licking at my bare thighs. Larkin’s hand is on my knee, thumb tracing small, private circles.
After a moment, he pivots, attention sharpening, as if the last fifteen minutes were a prelude rather than a finale. And I suppose he’s right. He stands in front of me, bare chest glistening in the gold-pink light of the tree. His cock is hard, insistent, the tip leaking in anticipation. He bites my shoulder, just above the place Lane marked with his thumbprint earlier, and the pain is bright enough to make me gasp.
“Get up,” he says, but there is laughter in his voice, a predatory delight that could only come from him.
He pulls me to my feet with a single, easy lift, and pulls me with him as he sits on the chaise. Lane shifts in his chair, watching, a single, massive hand wrapped around his half-hard cock as if unwilling to put it away, even for a moment.
Larkin keeps one hand on my waist, the other moving up to cup my breast. He rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to bruise, then brings his mouth down to bite, not gentle but not cruel, either. His cock slides along the seam of my body, smearing me with his pre-cum, and the friction is dizzying.
“Ride me,” Larkin murmurs, voice so close to my ear it seems to vibrate inside my skull. “Show Lane how it’s done.”
I lower myself onto him, guiding the head in with trembling fingers. The stretch is sweet, a burn I crave, and I take him in inch by inch, letting the fullness settle inside me before I start to move. Larkin leans back, arms behind him for balance, his face tilted up to watch every expression, every hitch of breath.
Igrind against him, the velvet of the dress now little more than a twisted sash around my ribs. My thighs flex, knees digging into the chaise’s velvet, and the pressure builds with every roll of my hips.
Lane watches, silent, his eyes almost silver in the firelight. He leans forward, his hunger on display. “Fuck, Nora,” Lane says, watching every move. “You’re perfect like this. Made for it. Isn’t she, Lark?”
“Mmm,” he replies. “A perfect little whore for us.”
I close my eyes, focus on the sensation of being filled, of the way my body adjusts and accepts, the way the muscles flutter and clench around Larkin’s cock. My hands brace on his shoulders, nails digging into the skin, and I ride harder, faster, letting the rhythm dictate everything.
The tree lights flicker, throwing shadows across the rug, and for a moment it feels like the whole house is spinning around this one axis: me on Larkin, Lane watching, the hunger spiraling tighter and tighter.
Larkin’s hands find my ass, squeezing, guiding, lifting me up and down with a force that makes my teeth clack together. He thrusts up to meet me, each impact a jolt of pleasure that cracks through the haze of brandy and want.
Lane stands, finally, and crosses to kneel behind me. His hands settle on my hips, then slide up my back, tracing the knobs of my spine. He bends to kiss my neck, then the place where Larkin bit me, then lower, across my shoulders and down to the small of my back.
“Gorgeous,” Lane whispers, and the word is so reverent I sigh.
He reaches around to cup my breasts, squeezing gently, rolling the nipples between his rough fingers. I arch into the touch, greedy for more.
Larkin’s eyes meet Lane’s over my shoulder, and they share that wordless understanding only they could have. Lane kisses the back of my neck, then moves beyond me to take Larkin’s mouth. The three of us are fused, a single, sweating organism.
Larkin slows the pace, holding me down on his cock, grinding up in slow, filthy circles. Lane’s hands never stop moving—down my sides, over my belly, between my legs to where I am already slick and swollen.
He finds my clit and circles it with the tip of his finger, the pressure just right, and I come hard, shuddering, my body clenching around Larkin’s cock in violent spasms.
“Good girl,” Larkin says, stroking my hair. “Again.”
Lane grins, a flash of teeth, and keeps working my clit until I come again, wrung out, boneless, slumped against Larkin’s chest.
They hold me there, safe and suspended, until my heartbeat slows.
Then Larkin leans back and pats the chaise next to our legs. “On all fours,” he says. “You’re taking both of us this time.”
I’m confused at first, but obey.
Lane smirks and nods, then positions himself behind me, cock already thickened again.
