Page 149 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Rory says nothing, but his silvery eyes reveal a mild amusement that acknowledges I’m not incorrect. While I’m happy and liberal with my kisses, while I play for fun and freedom, in the end it’s all for Rory’s pleasure. Our free love colludes in making Rory hard and me loose and limp and boneless.

“W-what do you mean?” Luke asks, a rare stammer blundering across his schooled, gracious lips. “What does she mean, this turns you on?”

But Rory gives away nothing, choosing to sit comfortably at the very end of the bed and watch us together.

I feel it, then: an exchange of agency, as Rory leaves the direction of tonight up to me. As though it’s proper. As though it’s right.

Although part of me craves nothing more than Rory to force his hand and make decisions like the dominating, authoritarian prick I know he can be, the fact he’s passed on that power to me is an unexpected thrill. That I’m the one who’ll have to ooze charm and sex, to entice the others into our bed, to make Rory surrender to the exact source of pleasure he desires.

This is the game we play.

It’s the game we’ll play, no doubt, when we’re old and married and gray.

And so I haul myself upright, catching Luke’s dangling hand in mine. Luke watches me through a saucer-wide gaze, the stark whites of his eyes contrasting with the dark umber of his skin.

“It means this,” I tell Luke, and, feeling brave, I kiss the back of his hand. His skin is achingly smooth. My lips inch upward in soft pressed kisses toward the cuff of his shirt, of the gleaming expensive wristwatch he believed would be a smart accessory to wear tonight.

Under Rory’s heated gaze, I lap at Luke’s skin. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and I have no need to be instructed by Rory to make this as erotic for him as possible. I’m his show, his starlet, his beautiful performer — only I’m not performing. This is me, turned on and gasping for fulfillment, for blinding pleasure and prolonged screams of ecstasy.

But Luke’s an innocent. Together we’ve done nothing more than kiss and make cow eyes at each other, although I’ve wanted more, I’ve wanted so much more…

Luke lets himself be led into bed. He sits beside me, glancing over at Finlay in the corner, at Danny at the back of the room. He licks his lips, turning back to me. “I’ve never… in front of people.” The unvoiced word hangs heavily in the air, and I wonder if Luke silenced it because he doesn’t know how far tonight will go.

I’ve never kissed someone in bed… I’ve never had sex… in front of other people.

But surely he senses it in the air? In the confident swing of Rory’s foot as he lounges across the bottom of the bed? We’re all Rory’s puppets, and tonight is eternal, as eternal as wedding rings and church bells. It’s as though, finally, Rory’s and my souls have zipped up together, are so synchronized that life suddenly makes new sense, wearing the filters through which Rory usually sees the world.

“That’s okay,” I tell Luke kindly, pulling his hand close to me, encouraging him to hold my waist. “I’m something of an expert by now.”

I hear rather than see Rory’s soft snort of laughter. It’s true, though. Being with Finlay and Rory at the same time, a blur of hands groping soaked, naked bodies… Kissing boys on the dancefloor, giving them pills like they’re presents, just as much of one as my sacred kisses.

Luke still wears an expression of strong disbelief, as though he may have accidentally accepted a pill from my tongue after all to enter this upside-down world, so I tell him, “Consider this a matter of international relations and diplomacy,” before slamming my lips to his.

In an instant, Luke gives a muffled groan, almost obsequious in its power. He slides his hand up to the back of my head, cradling me like I’m designed to be cherished by the best of men. By a man like Luke, as masterfully gentle and generous as his stroking fingers suggest.

Our mouths are hot when they collide, when they slide together and merge as one. Luke’s satin tongue sends ripples of lust pooling down to my belly, and I slide my hands over his shoulders, pressing him closer to me until we’re lying together in bed, mouths softly sampling each other.

I trace the planes of his face. His sculpted cheekbones, his dark slanted eyes, his full plump lips adorned by the delicate dent of his Cupid’s bow. All of him is exquisite, all of him deserves to be worshiped, for knees to bend and heads to bow, as he enshrines royal decrees into law and enjoys an authority given to him by a higher power. And if Rory is in this world as my god, then Luke’s definitely here as my gallant king.

Luke kisses me soundly, his anxiousness having apparently melted away. I wish I could see Rory’s face. I wish I knew how badly this was affecting him. But as our tongues tease moans from each other’s mouths, I swear I hear a deeply satisfied groan from Rory’s direction. After that, it takes effort not to grin throughout our kiss.

When we pull apart, I whisper to Luke in a voice that’s husky and strange to my own ears, “You think I deserve better?” His eyes are glassy with desire, his lips shining and kiss-swollen. “Then show me.”

---