33. 33.
33.
T he fire crackled within the stove, its warmth no match against the two bodies on either side. Darach read to him again, while Folke sat cradling his empty mug, still warmed from peppermint tea. The subtle sweetness of arrowroot biscuits lingered on his tongue. He became keenly aware, with each softly spoken word and each shift of a hand on his thigh, that he could easily spend the remainder of his days just like this.
“Where is home for you?” Folke blurted, swift to murmur an apology for the thoughtless interruption.
“We’ve been adrift for a while,” came the eventual, lightful reply. “I suppose if I were to call any place home, it would be Islay.”
Folke’s lips moved around a silent echo of Darach’s response. “That makes sense.”
Beithir’s provenance.
He opened his mouth to ask a question that had burned the wick for a while now, but Thomas interrupted with, “Mine’s Portsmouth.”
His tone casual, while Folke’s heart plummeted to the depths of a sinkhole.
Did Thomas know about the port city’s fate? The same fate suffered by so many towns during the Blitz? Had he any family left, a home? His attachment to Darach and Finlay seemed more reasonable by the minute.
Finlay’s hand dragged down to Folke’s knee, squeezing. “Pennsylvania.”
A response driving curiosity. Folke asked, “Were you born there?”
“No. My parents dragged me onto a boat when I was just a babe.”
He and Finlay had something in common, then. Folke didn’t consider anywhere other than Bwthyn Ywen his home, but he often wondered what life would have been like, had his parents chosen to stay in Denmark.
The hand on his leg shifted back up to his pelvis, the touch carnal.
Folke set his mug down on the low table and stood. “We should get some sleep.”
“But I want to know if Pablo gets to steal the dynamite,” Thomas whined.
The muffled sound of a book closing and Darach’s knee popping meant the decision was final. Folke reached out behind him and grazed an itchy, wool-covered arm. Then, he drifted out of the front room, up the stairs, and to the lavatory.
There, he stripped, leaving his clothes to hang on the bathtub’s side. He lathered up a washcloth to drag its slick damp over his face, his neck. A faint creak, and two sets of feet scuffed tiles.
Finlay’s lust-weighted groan teased Folke’s mouth into a smile. He dipped his head to mask it. Hands rounded his bare backside, squeezing. Lips trailed over the ball of his shoulder. A tongue dragged down his nape.
“I won’t get clean at this rate,” he chided, mildly.
His hand slackened by his chest. Droplets left cooling tracks down his stomach. Darach’s teeth caught his left earlobe and lightly tugged. A shiver danced down Folke’s spine, prickling his skin.
“Ye better hurry, then.”
Strong fingers settled on his hips. Fine wool slacks and the prominence of arousal pressed against the back of him.
He better hurry, then.
Folke worked the cloth across his skin, keenly aware that the surrounding hush meant his lovers were watching. His hand lowered to his nethers, and paused.
Pointedly, he muttered, “Washcloths are in the drying cupboard.”
An amused snort, and Folke knew his meaning had been understood: stop staring and wash.
Folke left for the bedroom first. He hesitated, naked, by the bed’s edge. Should he await them atop the sheets, or under? Was going into bed nude presumptuous? He longed to feel their skin against his and, perhaps as they had done all throughout their stay already, Darach and Finlay would continue to indulge him.
He clambered on and resisted forcing his legs under impenetrable sheets. Someone had made his bed. Tucked the sheets in with such ironclad vigour, Folke would struggle to loosen them.
Probably Finlay.
Moving to the centre, Folke leant against the headboard. Carved grooves and edges dug into his back as he crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Adjusted where he sat. Folded his hands in his lap. Unfolded them.
“Adorable.”
A powerful grip slammed around his ankle. Folke yelped, creases forming and twisting away under his body, dragged to the bed’s end until his legs flopped down and someone wedged himself between them.
Anticipation churned the air he drew into his lungs. Two sets of hands were on him again, sliding down his chest, along thighs. Cupping his pectorals, his balls. Darach’s lips captured his, plunging that clever tongue into his mouth, letting him taste cinnamon and camphor.
Folke curled his fingers into downy locks of hair he pictured auburn. With the other hand, he reached for Finlay, whose soft, sucking kisses journeyed the inside of Folke’s thigh. Moved to the base of his cock.
He groaned, straining his hips upward, longing for more of that mouth on him. Darach let go, leaving saliva to cool on his lips. Hands slid down the length of his stomach and another set of lips wrapped around the skin of his left thigh. Moved toward his cock. Finlay was still there, teasing and savouring—Folke flung his touch down, desperate to feel what he so surely suspected. Hot, bulky bodies draped over his legs as both men mouthed his erection. So close to each other, they might as well have been kissing.
The thought alone had him moaning with desire.
Strong grips around the underside of his knees pushed his legs up. Knocking away his grip on hair. Exposing him, filling him with anticipation. Thin lips enclosed around the tip of his cock, another mouth trailed across the curve of his backside, the bristle of a beard tickling. Moving inward.
A slick tongue passed over his entrance.
“Darach!”
Shock had him shouting, but Folke didn’t move, fascination locking him in place. Darach’s mouth pressed a deliberate kiss into him. Another roll of that tongue. Teasing, swirling. Leaving him gasping, his fingers twisting into sheets. While Finlay took his cock deep into dampened heat. Clenching. Swallowing on him. The tip of a nose brushing Folke’s pelvic hair.
He writhed under the tension building in his stomach. Chased after Finlay’s retreating mouth with a hand. His aching cock left to cool, a chuckle met his nigh panicked eagerness.
“Not yet, Precious.”
The mattress shifted under him. Encroaching bodily heat warned of hot, stiff flesh sliding along his face. Folke opened his mouth. Sought to anchor himself by gripping Finlay’s thigh as Darach teased him into madness with every wet suck and kiss and occasional stroke of his cock.
Finlay thrust into his mouth with a guttural curse, fingertips so gentle in the way they cradled Folke’s face. Another thrust, two thrusts, deep into his mouth, forcing his throat to flex around the intrusion before it eased away.
Hands slipped beneath his underarms, fastened around his chest, and lifted him upward across the bed to sit. Away from Darach’s touch and his mouth and that devilish tongue. Folke reached out for him. That eminent body settled between his widely spread limbs, and lips again closed over his.
Folke forced himself not to think about it. Let his tongue move with Darach’s in a whirl as intricate as his rousing feelings for the two men. Intensified by a hundredfold as his back settled against Finlay’s chest. Cradled between the two, Folke felt more content and bastioned than a king.
He wanted to tell them how much he needed to feel them inside him— both , at once. He yearned for it, hurt for it, but all that spilled was a wanton moan as a finger slid into him. Darach smiled against him, his teeth teasing the fold of Folke’s lower lip. Kissed him again. And again, more deeply. He’d never get enough.
Finlay’s hands scoured his stomach, his chest. One teased his nipples, the other, his cock. Gave it the occasional stroke as Darach worked to loosen him further. Folke let his own hands wander, surveying divots and curves, hair and rolling muscles. Glided his fingertips over thunder-induced scars and pocks of what had to have been bullet wounds. Straying to Finlay and back to Darach, a needy shift between the two.
Then he heard the rustle of paper, jarring in the concupiscent atmosphere of the bedroom. Through his clouded senses, Folke forced himself to ask, “What is that?”
Darach’s deep rumble of a chuckle was lyrical, even at Folke’s expense. “It’s shortening.”
And Finlay added, “Vegetable shortening, to be exact.”
“What brand?” Like it mattered at all.
It didn’t, and the two men’s laughter made that clear. The finger inside him curled upward. Folke decided he didn’t truly care, twisting against the hairy, muscular legs caging him in. His own sliding across Darach’s sides and twining around his hips. He pulled him forward with a sharp tug. As if to say, I need you. Now.
Darach’s sultry, “Alright,” was muffled against his mouth.
Rather than give into his demand, he inserted another digit and teased Folke further. And further, while Finlay kissed and sucked down his neck, kept stroking his cock. Brought him to the brink of release then lifted away his touch entirely. Repeated it.
Folke’s fervid keening turned into impatient swears. Rewarding him with the croon from both his lovers, and with strong hands easing his legs further up. Unveiling him to the slide of a hard cock against his entrance, determined in the way it pressed into him. He tucked Finlay’s lower lip between his teeth to stifle his groan.
He’d almost forgotten already, the stupefying size of Darach. Who grumbled his pleasure in Gaelic and leant to rest his forehead against Folke’s chest, while Finlay kept his legs up and worked to rob his mouth of all stuttered breaths.
“Regret rushing us?” Murmured, but mirth rifled Finlay’s voice.
Folke shook his head without breaking away. Gasped into that hot mouth as Darach’s slick, guiding fingers connected with his rear. Embedded, he slid back out. In again. Worked it into a rhythm, slow and maddening. Slipped free and hoisted Folke up to his knees. Held him tight around his rib cage and kissed him deep while Finlay plunged into him from behind. Robbing Folke of the air in his lungs and what little sense remained.
He heard himself begging for them both, want-slurred words more incomprehensible by the minute as Finlay moved harder, faster. His teeth around Folke’s nape, his breath hot and brimming with muffled curses. Then he left Folke empty. Bodily raised him off the bed and against a sweat-dampened chest, two powerful arms hooked around the underside of his knees. Opening him up to Darach, who took his turn. Alternating between them.
Darach murmured with that rumbling voice of his. He said, “Show him who he belongs to.” And asked, “Ye want us to breed ye? ”
To which Folke quivered his agreement. Because yes, he wanted everything— everything the men had to offer. He wanted Finlay’s grasp tightening on the skin of his hips. He wanted Finlay to slam in deep, to keep pushing into him. To bite him harder. To groan out his name as his cock pulsated and filled Folke with his sweltering seed.
And he wanted Darach to manoeuvre his trembling body until his back connected with Finlay, collapsed and panting beneath him. For Finlay to embrace him, arms locking around his throat while Darach spread his legs wide and plunged into him, stemming the flow of Finlay’s climax.
Measured movements so singular to Darach became rough. His undergrowl strained with feverish desire. Folke braced himself, his grip on forearms as tight as the one around his thighs. He muffled his staggered moans against Finlay’s skin. A hand curled around his cock, stroking him in that same syncopated rhythm as Darach’s hips. Slamming into him, filling the room with the slick slaps of his scrotum and Folke’s wanton moans and Finlay’s hoarsely uttered encouragement.
Heat within his belly spread like a brushfire. Prompting a strangled cry that had Darach following. Filling him. His cock pulsating deep inside. Sending shocks of lighting up his spine and turning him rigid. Breathless.
Folke collapsed into a twitching puddle. Lay there gasping, halfhearted in his attempt to return the kiss so ravenously delivered to his mouth. Moaned in complaint, as a come-slickened hand teased his spent member further. He lacked the strength to acknowledge the soft, playful laugh as Darach crashed to the mattress beside him like a felled oak. Were it not for Finlay hoisting him up to rest his head on a pillow between them, Folke would have simply stayed as he was for an eternity.
“I could get used to this.” Folke belatedly attempted to hide his slurred words against fabric.
Neither of his lovers responded with much more than wrapping an arm around him and firm kisses to his temples.