Page 59 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

But Rory’s eyes glimmer intensely as he wraps his arms tighter under my hips. This is all so new, and the fact that Finlay’s in the water behind me is already a minor miracle.

“Seems she might wantae be stolen,” Finlay notes cheerfully, giving me a possessive grab from behind. He brushes the side of my face, my jaw, the nape of my neck. Everywhere he touches, water trails down like an echo made real, an additional imprint of his impulsive caresses that repeat and repeat and repeat.

I quiver in Rory’s arms, overwhelmed with sensation.

Finlay moves his mouth close to my ear. “Can I touch you?”

It feels like he’s been touching me forever, but he hasn’t — only the briefest brushes of his fingertips against areas of my body so innocent and yet still so combustible.

I offer a jerky nod, craving him. Unlike Rory, Finlay doesn’t grind his erection against me. He doesn’t use me as a tool to get himself off, to keep him on a delicious, burning edge. Finlay keeps me wrapped in his arms but maintains a maddeningly polite distance away from me. I don’t quite possess the necessary vocabulary to demand he damn his chivalry to hell and shove his cock at me and maybe even in me, but I really wish he could understand at least telepathically from my wordless groans.

Finlay’s hands slide past my clavicle and down my sternum. His large palms cup my breasts from behind, and I give a short, ruined kind of sob. Nothing in the world has ever felt this good. Being pinned between two beautiful boys has broken me. I’m theirs. I’m all theirs and always will be. Just sweep me up and piece me back together later.

He squeezes my breasts at the same time, clutching them in his big hands as though he can’t hold enough of them at once. He rolls my hardened nipple between two knuckles, mirroring the action on the other side. My stomach tightens, spasming above the cradle of Rory’s arms. Language has already fled, even though these touches still feel innocent, saintly.

Rory props me higher and tilts me backward, almost angling my body for Finlay to get better access. My heels slap against the water’s surface, a cold welcome chill to my heated body. He holds me by my backside, his fingers grasping my soft flesh and his nails digging into me like needles. The burn of combined pain and pleasure is incredible. I feel, and it’s a shaky, miraculous thing. I feel whenever I’m with Rory, and I love him for it.

“I want you,” I murmur, over and over, to no one in particular and also to them both. I squeeze my legs around Rory’s waist, gripping tightly and rubbing my cunt against his skin. Water laps at the base of my spine and my feet splash, dangling behind Rory. It’s like I’m dancing, flying, caught in a lover’s embrace. My head is filled with an addictive, racing vertigo. Finlay kisses my neck, sucking on it greedily and planting a huge, possessive hickey opposite the one Rory created earlier. He palms my breasts from behind, kneading them slowly, each roll of his palm making me shudder in delight.

I feel wet — not just from the water, but in all my secret areas, the areas I’ve never given to anyone but the boy in front of me.

But now… now I want them both.

I twine my fingers in Rory’s silken wet hair and capture his mouth in a soft kiss. “Please,” I murmur against his lips, not quite sure what I’m asking.

Rory studies me carefully, reading whatever emotion is shining in my eyes. “You beg so prettily, little saint.” He runs a finger down my cheek, following the path Finlay made. “I’ll make you happy tonight. You’ll scream your happiness right here, out in the open. And with any luck, my father will hear it and know once and for all who you truly belong to.”

He says this so seriously that I can’t help but shudder. Rory really believes he’s competing with his dad — forme.

Worry tightens in my belly at the mention of his father. I’d almost forgotten about him, and it had been pleasant. It had been pleasant not to panic about the things Oscar Munro could do to me in private, in his room of death. Rory is knowable; his father is an entirely unknown quantity. Right now, I should be with him, dancing for him in a room lined with stuffed dead animals.

I wonder what the rage of such a powerful man feels like. I wonder if he’ll turn it on me tomorrow.

But is it true? Is Rory really competing with his dad for me? I swallow. Part of me is intrigued by the darkness within Oscar Munro, I can’t deny it. The veneration of him contrasted with the pure visceral hatred — it all adds up to the myth behind the man. But he is also just a man. I’ve spoken to him, I’ve seen the workings of his clever mind. The fact he’s a man wrapped up in long-term grief has added an extra dimension to him. He feels more real, more human than god.

Whereas Rory…

The more I get to know Rory, the wilder and more godlike he becomes.

The more prepared I am to worship him.

I nip the lobe of Rory’s ear, drawing it into my mouth and giving it a playful suck. He shrugs me off and shoots me a severe look, as though only he is permitted to tease tonight.

“Finlay,” Rory drawls slowly. “Punish her.”

I can sense the eyebrow being raised behind me. “Eh. I’m mair a being o’ pleasure, tae be honest.” I smile at this easygoing answer, so brazen and cavalier in the face of Rory’s intensity.

Rory shoots him a scathing glance. “Might I remind you that you wereinvitedhere? I can just as easily have you ejected.”

“How?” Finlay gives a soft, mocking laugh. He’s the only one who ever stands up to Rory like this. “Are ye gonnae fight me? Wrestle me here in the water, both o’ us completely naked and hard for the sassenach? Because ye know all my terrible secrets noo, they’ve all been brought intae the open. Ye must realize it’d be no punishment for me.”

Rory returns his gaze to me, pointedly ignoring Finlay’s existence, though I note with amused fascination that his cheeks have reddened somewhat.

“Finlay,” he says, resolutely staring into my eyes, “just spank her.”

My stomach flips at this sudden command, and I even feel Finlay stiffen behind me. Perhaps spanking falls under his remit as abeing of pleasure? Because I feel it — the lack of control over his breath, the new tension in his arms surrounding me. And genuinely, Idofeel him stiffen behind me — for the first time all evening, the tip of his cock grazes the curve of my backside, as though searching desperately for something to fill.

When I arch backward, thrusting deeper into Finlay, a soft moan escapes his lips. “Fuck,” he whispers, a chant of some kind, “fuckity, fuckity,fuck…” The last one is long and drawn-out, more an elongated groan than a recognizable curse.

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