Page 70 of Holly & Hemlock
We do not move for a long time. There are no more stories, just the low, contented hum of presence. At some point, Lane’s arm is around my shoulders, and Larkin’s handfinds my ankle, thumb moving in slow, absent circles just above the bone.
This is not what I expected. But it is, I realize, exactly what I want.
The library is vast, but in this light, with these two men and the last of the bottle, it feels almost human in scale. Almost like home.
Outside, the cold takes over. Inside, the world narrows to three bodies, a fire, and the comfort of knowing that for one more night at least, nothing hungry will come through the walls.
I think of what Whitby said, about choosing what to starve and what to feed.
I am very sure, now, which one I want to nurture.
Above us, the house listens. I imagine it approving, or at least tolerating, our configuration. It’s pushed us this way since I arrived.
I crouch by the fire, watching the flames collapse in on themselves, the logs now so reduced that the occasional spark looks almost obscene. Lane follows, sits cross-legged on the rug, eyes fixed on the shifting glow. Larkin lingers at his chair, watching us.
No one speaks. There is nothing left to say, nothing that would not be a repetition or a retreat. Instead, we just let the minutes pass, let the weight of the day drain out of us, let the currents of exhaustion and desire work themselves out.
It starts, as these things always do, with a touch so casual it could be an accident. Lane shifts his weight, his hand brushing mine where it rests on the rug. Instead of pulling away, he presses down, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, tracing the fine blue vein there. His skin is rough, callused, and the sensation is sharp, almost electric.
Larkin is watching. He does not look away when I meethis gaze. There is no challenge in it now, no need for triangulation or drama. Only a waiting, a patience, as if he is daring the moment to stretch a little longer, to see what shape it will take.
Lane’s hand moves, slow and deliberate, up my forearm, his fingers wrapping around just above the elbow. He is so much larger than me, but the grip is light, barely a suggestion. I turn into it, letting myself be drawn closer, and when our faces are an inch apart, he hesitates, breath warm on my cheek.
“You can say no,” he says, voice gravel and heat.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
He nods, once, then kisses me—soft, careful, as if he is afraid to break me. I am the one who deepens it, opening my mouth, biting at his lower lip, pulling him in. Larkin shifts on the hearth, and the movement is so loud in the quiet that it makes us both laugh, muffled and breathless.
Lane pulls me into his lap, hands on my hips, and for a second I forget that anyone else is in the room. It is a private thing, the way he holds me, the way his hands splay out across my back, the way he buries his face in my neck and breathes me in. But when I open my eyes, Larkin is there, close enough that our knees are touching, close enough that I can see the pulse hammering in his throat.
Larkin’s hand finds the small of my back, his fingers cool and precise. He leans in, brushes his lips against my temple, and whispers, “May I?” The words are a formality, but I am grateful for them tonight, for the acknowledgment of what we are all about to do.
“Please,” I say.
He kisses me, and it is nothing like Lane’s kiss. Where Lane is blunt and earnest, Larkin is all finesse—angled, artful, tongue flicking against my teeth, hands in my hair, hiswhole body vibrating with restrained energy. I am dizzy from the whiplash of it, from the way the two of them alternate, bracket me, hold me in place between their gravity.
The rest happens in a blur of sensation. My dress is the first casualty, the zipper loud in the hush, the fabric sliding off my shoulders and pooling at my waist. Lane’s hands are everywhere—palming my ribs, cupping my breasts, dragging his callused fingers over every inch of exposed skin. Larkin’s mouth follows, kissing every spot that Lane leaves behind, his hands moving lower, skimming the line of my thigh, teasing at the edge of my underwear.
I lose track of who is touching what. It is a relay, a circuit, each handoff more confident than the last. There is no jealousy, no competition, only a shared urgency, a mutual delight in the discovery.
When Lane lifts me—effortless, as if I weigh nothing—and lays me out on the thick carpet, Larkin is right there beside me, stripping off his own sweater, baring his chest to the firelight. He is pale, lean, every muscle a line of shadow and light.
Lane strips with less ceremony, unbuttoning his shirt with hands that tremble only at the last button. His body is a map of labor—broad shoulders, arms roped with muscle, scars old and new tracing the landscape. He kneels beside me, his jeans already half undone, and waits for permission. I give it with a look, and he strips them off, baring himself to us both.
The air is so heavy with want that there is no room for shame, no space for doubt. Larkin kisses me again, then kisses Lane, and the sight of it—two men so sexy but so opposite, mouths hungry, hands roaming, both wanting and giving—makes my whole body arch off the floor. They laugh, then do it again, each time with more abandon,more ease.
Hands roam. Mouths explore. I am at the center of it, but not the focus. We orbit each other, switching positions, switching roles, each new permutation more thrilling than the last.
Lane licks my pussy while Larkin feeds me his cock, and the taste of them, the feel of them, is so overwhelming I can only close my eyes and let it happen. Larkin comes in my mouth, a sharp, briny rush, and when Lane fucks me a minute later, he kisses the taste of Larkin off my lips, moaning into my mouth as he thrusts, slow and deep and relentless.
It goes on for hours, each round gentler than the last, more intimate, more exploratory. Sometimes we all collapse in a tangle, breathless and sighing, limbs intertwined, sweat cooling in the draft from the old windows. Sometimes one of them disappears into the kitchen, returns with a snack or a carafe of water, and we drink, eat, then return to each other as if drawn by magnets.
At one point, Larkin props himself on an elbow and traces the line of my clavicle with his tongue, then says, “You realize this is insanity.”
I grin, head pillowed on Lane’s chest. “The best kind.”
Lane’s hand is in my hair, but his other arm wraps around Larkin’s waist, anchoring him in place. “I hoped you would be the one for this,” he says to me, his eyes filled with wonder.
