18. 18.
18.
W ithin the first few paragraphs, Folke decided that being read to by Darach was another thing he liked. Comforting, the way his voice rumbled. Endearing, the way Darach prepared to turn a page several sentences before actually needing to turn it.
A story about the Spanish Civil war. Not one of his favourite subjects, but that mattered little, sonorous voice and splashing flow of water lulling and serene. So much, Folke tipped sideways to rest his head on Darach’s shoulder, favouring the coat’s fur lining.
Unable to resist, Folke rubbed his cheek into it. Inhaled deeply. Holding that alluring scent of musk, well worn leather, and the surrounding nature.
Darach stopped reading. Turned his head. His beard and mouth pressed to Folke’s brow bone, tender. A slight shift and their lips nearly brushed. Desire charged the air, but hesitancy held Folke back. He tightened his hold on Finlay’s hand, afraid they would leave him alone to simmer on their offer again.
Don’t want to simmer.
Or be alone.
“I want to say yes,” he croaked. Each word uttered into the beckoning hollow of Darach’s mouth. The feverish pounding of his heart quivered his breath. “More than anything. Right now, I want to.”
“What’s stopping you?” Finlay, quietly. Covering Folke’s hand with the other as if to reassure.
“It’ll hurt.” Folke swallowed. Forced himself to sit up, to calm his aching, thrashing heart. “And what about both of you? You said you’d stay as long as you could. Which means that inevitably, you’ll need to leave. If I say yes and this comes to an end, won’t it hurt you, too? Or do I have no value, other than what you first saw? Will you take what you want then never spare me another thought?”
Silence enfolded them as Folke sat there, inwardly writhing with need and heartache. Already he’d grown attached, he realised, and it had only been three days .
If given three weeks of this, Folke knew he’d fall in love.
Three months, and they’d likely be gone.
Folke pulled his hands away, needing to withdraw. Stopping short of walking off.
“Ah, fuck, Precious.” Finlay’s voice frayed.
“We’re soldiers, Folke,” Darach murmured. “D’ye ken how rare it is to find anyone like us? Or to even have the opportunity?”
Not were , but we are .
Soldiers who had arrived during a terrible storm, bringing with them lightning and wolves and glazed earth.
Something slid into place, its click audible in his mind. Folke licked his lips, mouth dry. Darach and Finlay were here because of the wolves, or the storm, or the storm-wolves. Creatures Folke had never met before, as far as he knew. Yet for some time now, his sheep had been picked off, one by one.
Darach had told him his entire perception of the world would change if he learned their secrets.
Tell me everything, he wanted to say.
“Live in the moment, you mean,” Folke murmured.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Stood so abruptly, dizziness threatened to spill him to the ground. He stepped forward without his crook. Unsteady.
Paused.
“This is just as rare for me, you know.” A bit of an understatement, although he thought they knew that.
Folke chanced another step forward, his heart ready to break free.
This was terrifying.
“Where. . .are you going?” Finlay asked.
“Back home,” Folke replied, breathless. Not quite believing his own daring.
Neither men moved. He bit down his vexation, given rise only due to his sudden impatience and fright.
“ Yes ,” he stressed.
Boots scraped across the path. Finlay’s, “Oh, fuck,” lost to the breeze as he hurried toward Folke. Hands clamped down on both his forearms. Dragged him along. He stumbled up the incline, his startled laugh and their footsteps reverberating through the square.
Someone tossed him forward. Folke yelped, his palms meeting with smooth leather. Swiftly crawled further into the car.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Finlay rasped just behind him.
“It’s fine.” Folke sat up, sucking in a trembling breath at the way hands pawed his thighs. Squeezing and clenching, sliding up to the crotch before jerking away.
Finlay was struggling to control himself. An understanding that sent heat north and south.
The car dipped. Doors slammed. The engine burred to life and they were off with such speed, it lurched Folke bodily forward. Strong hands steadied him by the shoulders, then led him into a firm kiss. Crushing, almost, with the way Finlay pressed into him. Chest to chest, hands still on his shoulders. Becoming more resolute by the minute until Folke yielded.
Laid down across the back seat, vibrating into him.
Heart thumping.
A smoke-spiked tongue slid into his mouth to toy with his own.
Teeth dragged over his lower lip, just a drop too hard.
Hips thrust against him.
Folke gasped, the feel of Finlay’s hardness against his thigh impossible to ignore.
A chuckle.
“Virgin.” Said teasingly.
“Well, yes ,” Folke shot off, the rawness of it lost within his panting. He reached between them, into what little space remained to adjust his straining discomfort.
“Canae wait to break ye in.”
Words that stilled Folke’s movements, stole his breath, and had embarrassment burning hot. He slung both arms over his face, wondering just how to ask what that meant, exactly.
Folke started as fingers pushed up his jumper and shirt, exposing his stomach to air growing ever warmer. Finlay’s groan was guttural.
“We’re going to have to lock Thomas in the barn.”
Lips brushed his bare stomach with every syllable. Planted wet, sucking kisses. Trailed down . A slight tug at the waist of his trousers and Folke jerked up a knee. It connected with Finlay’s side, hard.
Finlay grunted, pained, and swiftly eased off him. “God damn.”
“Oh, bollocks. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Folke sat up, and a blinding pain shot through his forehead. He clutched it, dropping back down to the sound of Finlay’s cursing, whose head was unlikely to feel any better.
“Be careful wi him!” Darach hissed over the car’s engine.
“It was all him!” Finlay snapped. Yet he cradled Folke’s face with warmed hands and lips pressed to his aching forehead. “Sorry, Gorgeous.”
“It’s fine.” He sighed, more careful this time in sitting up.
The car jerked, gravel pelting out from under tyres before they slowed to a stop. The break cricked and Folke took it as a sign to get out.
Nearly slammed the door shut on Finlay, had the man not let him know he was right behind him with a touch to the back of his thigh. The crook pressed into his hand when he reached for it, somewhat startled when neither Darach or Finlay touched him during the trek back to the cottage.
Which seemed agonisingly long now.
In the romance books read to him, the couple always became entangled in heated, stolen moments. Never needing to prepare, let alone walk anywhere to have sex.
This was not like those books.
This became more awkward the further they walked and the longer silence blanketed them.
The path turned particularly rough under his feet—he was only a short distance from home. Gentle bleating pulled him to the cottage’s side, where he was welcomed by Thomas’ shrill, “Finally!”
Folke ignored him in favour of greeting his sheep, reaching to let them mouth his knuckles.
“Have you checked the barn recently?” he heard Finlay say.
“Yeah, of course. I know what I’m doing!”
“O’ course,” said Darach, placatingly. “Would ye like to take a drive?”
There came a pause. “Why? What are you two planning?”
Folke lowered to his haunches and curled over Shawl. Pressed his lips to the hard slope of her nasal bone.
“We just thought you might like to go and enjoy yourself,” said Finlay, so casually.
Great liars.
“Aw, but I’d be on my own.”
“We’ve just been, we’re not going again.”
“Here, take some money. Go enjoy yersel.”
Folke frowned as decidedly lighter feet whipped through grass, away. Drawing near, much heavier steps. He straightened up, a shiver dashing down his spine when lips brushed across his nape. Someone’s hand slid over the jut of his hip.
“Alright?” Darach asked, softly.
Folke licked his lips, nerves reawakening. He really didn’t want to sound like a virgin, but, “How. . .will this work?”
“Well,” Finlay began, uncharacteristically docile. “We’ll take a moment to wash up, if you want. And then—”
“We can take turns if that makes ye more comfortable.” Words that made Folke wish he could drop to the ground and crawl away. “Or we can take ye at the same time.”
“Oh, my God,” Folke spluttered. He’d never been so embarrassed in his life.
How was he meant to answer, when either choice was shockingly lurid?
He hadn’t thought this through.
Too late now.
Folke wasn’t sure he wanted to change his mind, anyway.
He turned in half embraces, opened his mouth to say something. Managed an unattractive noise and immediately shut his mouth again, the frustrated click of teeth audible.
“Wash up first, got it,” said Finlay.
“I’ll put my Garments in the barn.”
As Folke stepped away, Darach’s gentle, “Folke?” pulled him back.
“Ye can change yer mind.”
Reassuring to have the offer, but, “No, thank you.”