22. 22.
22.
F inlay kissed him. Not with lust. Seeking reassurance, perhaps. Folke didn’t know what reassurance he could offer, but he twined his arms around Finlay’s neck. Leant in close. Relished in shared respirations, the tangle of their tongues.
The growing desire, lit like a match.
Finlay grasped his midriff and pushed him backward. Until he connected with the shutter of a window, banging once against limestone. Firm fingers found their way under Folke’s shirt, scouring the skin of his stomach. Folke’s own hands sought hair, cherishing the touch of short, soft locks. Surprised to find it oil-free.
A thread he would tug on later.
Much later, Folke realised, since Finlay freed his already tormented lower lip from between teeth and shifted with a groan.
“You’re worse than an opiate.”
Folke mulled on that. “I make you sleepy?”
Not the effect he’d been going for, but if he relaxed him better than cigarettes did, then Folke would take that as a compliment.
He lowered his touch to a warm waist, fingers creeping behind the band, an undershirt preventing direct contact with skin.
Finlay chuckled, underbreath. Rested his forehead against Folke’s. Stroked his jawline with knuckles. “Fuck.” A slow inhale through his nose. He sounded a little stuffy. “I’m in trouble.”
“I won’t tell Darach what happened.”
Almost happened.
Did that mean Finlay was solely responsible for the not-exactly-landmines?
“No, God damn it, that’s not—” Back to being angry. “Fuck what Whyte wants.”
Lips were on him again. Crushing. Full of need and desire. Tongue plunging into his mouth, stealing a moan. Then, just as Folke managed to edge the undershirt up and expose a patch of hair across a hard stomach, Finlay broke away .
Panting, a bit like a dog in heat.
Or a wolf.
“If we don’t stop now, I’ll take you right here.”
“And that would be bad,” Folke uttered, miraculously more composed than Finlay.
“Very.”
“Because Thomas might see us, or because you have some kind of agreement with Darach?”
An incredulous huff. “You’re fucking astute, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m not stupid.”
“I know, Precious. I know. You’re—”
“Entitled to know what sort of agreement you have with him,” Folke said. “Since I’m at the centre of it.”
Fingers combed through his hair, working to flatten it. “I was meant to get you out of my system.”
Folke mulled on that, too.
Discovered hurt.
“Oh.”
Would have been nice if you’d said that to begin with.
“But I can’t seem to.” Finlay took to stroking his chin with a thumb. “You have to understand, Whyte doesn’t like to share.”
“Yet he has,” Folke said, bitterly. “He says it’s not because he owes you.”
They had agreed to share him and not once included him in that decision, or let him choose.
Would he choose now?
Darach, or Finlay?
“It’s true, that’s not why he’s sharing,” said Finlay. “He has no choice but to.”
Folke lowered his hands to toy with the button of Finlay’s trousers. Metal, thankfully, but plain. “You realise this makes no sense to me?”
“You’re going to ask questions, and we will answer.”
“But not today,” Folke echoed.
“You’re tired, you need to rest first.”
Folke eased out of Finlay’s hold, reaching for the porch’s post to help him up. When Finlay called out, “Precious?” he stayed his hand from opening the door.
“I’m a huge Al Bowlly fan. I enjoy the movies and root beer is my choice of drink. Not that I can find it in this shit hole of a country. And. . .if you’ll have me, even after everything, I want to be yours.”
Benumbed, Folke wandered back up to his bedroom, where he quietly shut the door and stripped to his undergarments. Despite the open window, the room smelled of smoke and wilderness. Of Finlay and Darach.
The sheets even more so.
Folke rolled onto his side and buried his head into the pillow. Inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes. Expecting never to fall asleep, preoccupied as he was with the aroma of soldiers and lingering arousal.
Opened them to fingers gliding over the side of his face.
Clean, damp air and forests.
Folke flailed his arm forward. His fist knocked into something warm. He twisted his grip into soft fabric and buttons. Pulled himself upright by Darach’s shirt with the groan of an old man.
Darach’s amused huff suggested he agreed with that sentiment.
“Supper’s ready, if ye care to join us.”
He would have liked to respond, although couldn’t seem to string any words together, a tired moan all that tumbled past his lips. Folke rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping to dispel the grogginess.
Flopped back down, nuzzling into the side of Darach’s thigh.
Slurred a muffled, “Go away,” when a hand shook him by the shoulder.
A faint tut. “Ye truly are the grumpiest thing after waking.”
Damn him for sounding so tickled.
“Come, it’s cottage pie.”
Folke ceased his slack-handed attempt at pushing Darach off the bed. He lifted his head enough to echo those words. So slurred, he might as well have been drooling in addition.
Jocularly, “That’s right.”
Darach guided him upright. Folke slumped forward in a daze, ready to collapse again when the mattress pendulated under the weight shifting off it. Something fluttered over his head. Cotton-soft, a touch smelly. His pyjamas.
“Dinner in this?” he mumbled, pulling them off him.
“An’ this.” A jumper cloaked his head next. “Ye can go straight back to bed after.”
Too sluggish to argue, Folke eventually made it to the top of the stairs, where he swayed. Nearly tumbled down. All to Darach’s great amusement. Were it not for the quick kiss dropped to his nape whilst walking down the hallway, Folke might have felt more than nettled.
“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Thomas, the moment Folke wobbled into the dining room.
He grunted, seeking the nearest chair. His knuckles connected with warm skin.
“Somebody’s here.”
He didn’t need to steal a touch of fine hair on the back of Finlay’s head, but he did. Teased him with a fingertip before moving, his hand sliding over a strong shoulder. For support, of course, before he heaved himself into the nearest chair.
“Who cooked this time?” Folke couldn’t deny supper smelled delightful. The savoury notes of gravy and beef tantalising. Although he would be hesitant to eat it if Thomas was responsible.
“Fin.” Thomas clanged a fork against his plate.
Folke grimaced.
“I’m an acceptable cook, thanks.”
“Suppose we’ll find out,” he said .
He did not expect the nudge against his calf, although did an admirable job of not flinching.
Finlay, underbreath, “Cheeky.”
“It’ll be your turn to cook tomorrow’s dinner.” Thomas sounded rather gleeful about that.
Folke rubbed a fingertip over the plate’s scalloped side.
Hope you like oxtail soup.
The chair opposite him creaked. “Dinnae worry, I’ll help.”
Folke readied himself to say he could do it himself, but closed his mouth. Turned in his seat at the melodic tinkling of wind chimes just outside. “That. . .would be nice—”
“What is that ?” Thomas squeaked. His chair scooted across the floor.
Feet thumped Folke’s way. He tilted sideways, away from the invasive scent of earth and sweat and anise.
“Oh, my God!” Thomas laughed loudly. Cruelly, almost. “Who in the world is necking you ?”
“What?” Folke croaked.
“Sit the fuck down, Thomas,” Finlay snarled.
“No way. I want to know who did this!” A jab at his neck that shouldn’t have been as painful as it was.
Folke clapped his hand over the tender area. Mind swivelling to Darach, who had mouthed at him until it hurt.
Darach had left a mark.
“When did you have the time to get this, anyway?”
An indignant pause, serrated with mortification, dripping with the need to retaliate. During which Folke loaded his rebuttal into the chamber of his mouth.
I’ve been fucking your superiors, he wanted to say.
He wanted to shout, get the hell out of my home, you contemptible blusterer.
Blurted, “I’m sleeping with Finlay and Darach.”
That cut Thomas’ laughter short.
Curdled the air with disquietude, too.
Folke’s heart gave a fierce, painful thud.
Then, the fusillade of laughter. A hard slap across Folke’s back sent him forward against the table’s edge.
“Oh– Oh !” Thomas wheezed, his laughter degrading into breathless squawks. “The cobblers on you, mate. You should see their faces right now.”
Folke bit down the need to demand Thomas describe them. Stopped himself from smacking away the hand on his shoulder.
“He’s got a girlfriend in the village,” snapped Finlay. “Now sit down, you gobshite.”
Thomas didn’t get his laughter under control until he’d done as told, the chair’s whine across the floor as uncomfortable as the atmosphere.
Darach was breathing rather heavily through his nose, Folke realised. His anger shrivelled as quickly as it had cropped up. He hunched his shoulders. Dragged his fingers under the jumper to pick at plastic buttons.
Blithering fool.
Imbecile .
Cutlery hit ceramic. Food plopped onto a plate. Several, including Folke’s. It scraped the table’s surface, ending just beneath his face. Steam hot, savoury beef teasing his nose.
Finlay, as it turned out, was more than an acceptable cook. Folke couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything so toothsome. A compliment he would have verbally delivered, if he hadn’t bollocksed things up so astoundingly.
Supper passed in silence but for the scrape of forks across stoneware. Throughout, Folke cast for what he could say to ease the tautness between them. Came up empty every time. Didn’t dare ask how his sheep fared, certain they were fine. Neither did he have the courage to ask Darach about the man who would shear them.
“Go do the dishes and fuck off upstairs,” Finlay snarled after a hard shove of his plate.
Folke stilled his hands where he had dug them under the jumper again. Unsure if Finlay addressed him, or Thomas.
Mercifully, Thomas groaned. “Fine.”
Plates rang. Things clattered. Sluggish feet shuffled out the dining room. Folke’s stomach felt expanded, he’d cleared his whole plate and there had been a lot . He needed to move. Go upstairs, lock himself away. Refuse to face whatever consequences his stupidity had earned him.
He swung his legs out from under the table.
“Stay, Folke.”
Fright moiled his chest. Darach’s voice wasn’t any particular tone. Still, all Folke longed to do was slide under the table. Hide.
“Oi, Shepherd.”
Folke started. “What now?”
“If you’re done resting your head, you should help me with gardening tomorrow. Not fair that I’m doing all the work!”
“Yes, fine,” Folke ground out.
Thomas hummed, impressed. “That was easy. I don’t know what you two mean.” The last part of that uttered from down the hallway. His feet soon stomping up the stairs. Creaking the floorboards above.
The grandmother clock that stood in the room’s corner had long since faded, but just then, Folke swore he could hear it. Flicking further tension into the air with each unsounded tick.
“That was a risky thing ye did, Folke.”
He swallowed harshly. Sliding his rebuttals back into the chamber. Ready and willing to fire.
“You’re the one who left a mark.”
“Aye.” A scrape of Darach’s chair. “An I’ll do it again.” His footsteps rounded the table, drawing close. “And again.” Folke’s heartbeat reared inside his rib cage. “As many times as it takes.” Breath hot over his ear. Teeth sharp on the shell. “Until it’s permanent.”
Darach’s hand coiled under his biceps, ushering him to his feet. Then, onto the table. Anything he might have thought to say jammed the moment his legs were pushed apart, and that stately body wedged itself between them. Folke discovered a face full of musk and the soft cotton-blend of a shirt overstretched across a broad chest. He reached up to settle his palms flat against it, just as fingers on his chin tilted his head up.
“I said I’d make ye mine.”
Folke swallowed again, his mouth too dry. Forgot how to breathe as Darach moved in close, nose brushing the tip of his. Hands gliding over the length of his thighs, squeezing.
He ached for a kiss, but Darach didn’t move from where his exhales caressed Folke’s lips.
“I–I didn’t mean to say that,” he managed. “To Thomas, I mean.”
“Hardly the issue at hand.” Said teasingly. “But I dinnea fault ye. I’m sorry he spoke to ye that way. I’ll set him straight tomorrow.”
“It’s fine.” Folke drifted his touch upward so that he might toy with a soft beard.
“He has na right speaking to ye that way.”
“This wouldn’t have been an issue,” he strained, forcing his focus away from aching desire, “if you hadn’t marked me where others can see.”
Darach hummed. “Is that an invitation?”
Yes . Fuck, yes.
Curling his fingers firmly into bristling hairs, Folke tried to coax Darach in for a kiss.
Darach didn’t kiss him. Didn’t even move, or acknowledge Folke’s huff of impatience.
“An invitation, or na? Will ye be mine?”
Folke’s brows wove into a frown. All the things Finlay had said out on the porch now whirling back. He relaxed his grip on the beard and titled away, giving himself the air needed to think.
Twinkling chimes still floated in through the window, occupying a silence now brimming with anticipation.
“No,” Folke said at length. He nearly smiled at the slight jolt of the forearms pressing into his sides. It felt like a victory. “I want you to be mine.”
Palpable, the way the atmosphere twisted with heightened arousal. Darach’s heat dove in. Folke raised his left hand, pressed it to that wide chest again, stopping him.
“I want Finlay to be mine, too.”
They had denied him a proper choice to begin with, now he had no choice but to have both. Whatever complications would arise, Finlay and Darach could sort out among themselves. This was what they had wanted.
And now, this was what he wanted.
Lips on him. His mouth, his neck. Four hands scouring his body. Joining to lift the jumper over his head, wool-built static crackling, teasing his hair to stand upright. Finlay’s hoarse chuckle faint as it was sweet while he smoothed Folke’s hair again. Folke smiled against Darach’s lips, reaching. Knuckles briefly connected with a stubble-prone chin before he clasped the back of Finlay’s head. Pulled him forward into a kiss, too.
Darach’s mouth traversed past the dip of his collarbone, down to his bare chest. Kissed a path across his stomach, tongue leaving dampened tracks, beard hairs tickling. Finlay drove deep into his mouth, swiping and tasting. Folke tried to meet him as best he could, far from proficient with kissing, still.
Not to mention both men varied wildly in their diction.
Finlay, all teeth and tongue and commanding plunges.
Darach, unhurried and sensual. Cunningly dominant in the way he kissed down to Folke’s pelvis. Laid a hand flat against his sternum, and pushed.
Folke parted from Finlay with a bedewed suck. Cold tablewood ambushed his heated skin. No longer able to reach either of them, he ran his fingers through his hair. Needing to ground himself when a powerful hold lifted his hips, and another eased both pyjama bottoms and briefs off. His arousal settled on his stomach with a dull smack, the bottoms left tangled around his ankle.
Gaining groans of approval, and hands that took to roaming him again. Blocking out most of the room’s chill, the evening breeze ghosting across any parts left exposed. Covered, once Darach leant over him. Leisurely kissed him. Clothed crotch grinding against Folke’s backside, hanging off the table’s edge. A hand on his hardness, stroking. Not Darach’s, whose hands slid up and down his sides.
“I need to be inside ye.” Darach’s savoury breath ushered past his lips, allowing Folke to taste his words, his desire.
As that clever tongue coiled inside his mouth again, Folke understood that Darach was asking for permission. Asking, perhaps, if he was well enough.
“Please,” Folke braved.
Earning him such a laboured growl, he would have been convinced Darach had injured himself, were it not for the sudden rush of trousers unzipping. The hand on Folke’s member left, as did Darach’s warmth. Distantly, he heard Finlay move about, the door clicking shut. Distracted, when someone spat, flecks of saliva pelting his chest.
More so, as a slick finger circled the whorl of his entrance.
Darach’s calescence reappeared as wet heat enveloped the tip of Folke’s hardness. Tremulous, his gasp. Unintentional, the thrust of his hips. Hands flying down to grab hair, twisting into silken locks while a finger pressed into him.
“Easy,” Finlay murmured above his head.
So gentle-like, it startled Folke into relinquishing his hold. He reached for Finlay instead, aching for their lips to meet as hands caught his in a tender hold. Darach’s mouth took him into tight, hot dampness. Pushed the digit in deeper and all Folke could do was moan, helpless, against the corner of Finlay’s mouth.
“You’ll need to be quiet,” Finlay said. “That little shit’s going to be on his toes about us now. ”
“I don’t—” Folke strained to keep from making too much noise, his throat clicking with an audible swallow and fingers threading with Finlay’s.
Darach had devoured him whole, moustache and beard hairs tickling the sensitive skin of his pelvis. Clenching heat sucked back up, teased the tip, then plunged back down. All while Darach worked his entrance. Overflowing the room with lewd slurps and Folke’s muffled, panicked moans as his stomach tightened. He kicked out his legs, heels connecting with some part of Darach, who released him with one last, salacious suck.
Leaving him throbbing and at bursting point.
“Not yet, bonnie shepherd.”
He flexed around a sudden emptiness. Lamented Finlay vanishing from his side. Were it not for the imposing body between his legs, Folke would’ve thought both men had decided to leave him already.
Further spitting forced Folke to suppress his distaste. He swiped the air before him. Relieved when Darach moved into him again, blanketing Folke with warmth and surety, the scent of his own arousal glued to lips sealing over his mouth.
Don’t much care for that.
Had no opportunity to voice his opinion, a thick shaft sliding over his own before it nudged into him. Folke entwined Darach with all limbs. Arms around the neck, legs around the strong waist. First indications of a cry quickly subdued by a calloused hand over his mouth. Darach wasn’t as wetted as before. Although slow and careful, it hurt. Pushing into him by increments, eliciting scares and sharp gasps every time.
Until Darach was embedded, his kisses ravenous. Pilfering all of Folke’s noise while those hips moved. Dragging out that impossible thickness. Pushing back in. Building a rhythm reminiscent of their first time, suffused with more urgency. Each of Darach’s grunts more breathless than before, his whispered words of filth accompanied by fretful creaks of the table.
Not that sturdy, after all.
Hands scoured Folke’s chest, turning his skin feverish. Wrapped around his erection, teasing it in time with each of the internal strokes, titillating that wicked spot inside him. Folke arched off the table with a shocked gasp, jouissance setting his body ablaze.
“That’s it,” Darach rumbled.
A forceful thrust shocked Folke into crying out. Muffled too late by fingers sliding into his mouth, by Finlay’s husky voice shushing him. Folke clawed at Darach’s shirt. Whimpered as it left his reach and hands grabbed him by the thighs. Pulled Folke down hard to impale him further, pace picking up. Going deep. Too deep . Sending lightning bolts up his back, an electric coalescence of bliss and torment.
Folke flailed his legs, slammed his hands down on the table on either side of him. Scratched at the wood, shellac coming away under his nails. The fingers pulled his mouth wide open, allowing saliva to slip past the corners.
Darach uttered in Gaelic, it sounded like a curse. His low rumble of a voice clipped, breathing laboured. The grip on Folke’s thighs turned painful, the touch seeming to burn his very skin.
“ Whyte .”
An animalistic growl. Another forceful lunge that would have sent Folke sliding across the table were it not for the vise now on his waist, bringing him down on each thrust.
Too rough.
“Darach,” Folke rasped around Finlay’s retreating fingers, pleadingly. Nigh inaudible, but enough for Darach to still his movements.
Folke’s relief burst from him in one great exhale, and he sagged. Rubbed the trembling base of his thumb over his forehead, trying to gather the wits that had been pummelled out of him. The weight of that colossal body returned atop him, along with a kiss.
Apologetic.
Full of enflamed breaths and desperate need.
The hold on his waist relented, one arm winding around his rib cage, the other securing his back. Folke’s world tipped. Belatedly understood he now straddled Darach’s hips, that the man had to be sitting. That he had slipped free of him, sweltering shaft pressing between the globes of his backside.
“I’m sorry,” Darach panted into his mouth, stroking a palm over his sweaty forehead, pushing the hair from his face. Voice cracking, “I’m sorry .”
Folke tilted into the touch, wrapping his left arm more securely around the sturdy neck. Pressed his bare chest against Darach’s, still clothed. Kissed him, too.
Forgiving.
Let their tongues slide together as he raised his hips and reached behind him to grasp at the slick length. Guided it back to where Darach needed to be, thick veins and velvet sliding into him again.
He moaned at the way it glutted him, at the way Darach’s breath shuddered. Who held him tenderly now as he helped Folke back up. Down. Building an easier pace, one Folke could control. Slow, and deep, and maddening all the same. Each press against his inner walls tightening his stomach, the burl of his orgasm building far too quickly already.
And when Darach’s hand slid over his, guided it to press down into his pelvis, when Folke felt movement— Darach inside him through his fingertips, his entire body flustered. Clenched. Quivered like the earth trembling beneath a thunderstorm as his orgasm took hold.
Robbing him of every sliver of coherency and thought. Only vaguely aware of the scorching pleasure spilling into him, of the way Darach groaned low into his mouth, smothering Folke’s helpless cry.