37. 37.
37.
T his time, conversation remained sparse. Not unpleasantly, but the desire to reciprocate Finlay’s confession chewed at Folke not unlike a mouse trapped inside a wall.
Sunken deep in his thoughts, he startled at the sudden updraught shaking the car around him. Debris pelted its exterior, and worry notched his heart.
“It’s just the wind,” Finlay murmured.
Folke pushed, “Natural, or supernatural?”
They drew to a stop. Finlay remained quiet, and Folke could do nothing more than sit there, waiting for a response he wished wouldn’t come. Terrified he already knew the answer.
Eventually, “Just a storm.”
He fought against the wind pushing the door back into him as he staggered out of the car. Slid his palms across cold metal blanketed with moisture to meet Finlay on the other side. A strong arm secured around his, leading him up the rocky path to the cottage. No downpour yet, although the sky surrendered a few droplets, thick and icy as they pelted Folke across the face.
“Shawl and Socks?” was the first thing to tumble past his lips as the front door swung open.
“Safely tucked away in their barn.” Darach’s reassuring baritone beckoned Folke straight into his arms. “Och, ye’re shaking.”
He was, and couldn’t fully blame the chill that had seeped through his clothes. A large hand brushed damp hair off his forehead. “I’ll make ye a brew. Sit by the fire, mo leannan.”
Folke’s fingers twisted into the jumper’s even knit, preventing Darach’s departure. Hoarsely, he whispered, “Not yet.”
A moment longer within the engulfing embrace, of listening to Finlay shut the door, muting the howling outside, now only a rattle against the window shutters. The rustle of a coat being hung, and thuds of boots removed. Crackling of a fire a distance away, its warmth spilling into the hallway.
The thrum of Darach’s heartbeat beneath his ear, as he rested his head over a wide chest.
Sounds of tranquillity.
Tilting his head up, soft lips invited a kiss. A vestal touch. Until Folke reached up and cradled a bearded face with a hand, and the kiss deepened into a resonation of how much he’d missed his lover.
As a tongue stroked into his mouth, Folke longed to know what Darach would have thought of the film, of the actor’s dialects, of the story itself. Would he have received a message as optimistic as Finlay, or did he have more in common with Folke himself?
He didn’t ask, only persisted with their lock of lips. Until his lungs itched for air and forced him away. Darach hummed with approval. Brushed hair out of his face again with an idle thumb.
“I’ll sort supper, and make ye that brew.”
Folke melted into the palm warming his left cheek. “Thank you.”
Heavy footfalls receded into the kitchen. Another set whispered past, and his hand shot out to capture Finlay by the sleeve of his shirt.
Only, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to express his gratitude for the outing, of course, but that would surely seem like a lie.
He settled for, “I enjoyed your company.”
To which Finlay scoffed, the humour behind it dry. “Let’s get changed.”
Gladness fluttered within Folke’s heart. He brushed the base of his palm over his chest as if to scratch it, following both scent and sound up the staircase. Notes of anise lingered by the landing, although there was no Thomas to be heard.
Folke opted for comfort, as always. Slid his legs into worn wool slacks, a shirt and a dry, finely knit jumper. Well worn, but not merino wool. Nearby, Finlay’s belt clinked and suspenders snapped.
How easy it was to simply coexist. Natural. As though they had done this a hundred times over the years.
“You don’t have to be scared, you know.” Behind him, Finlay dropped a kiss to Folke’s nape as he sat on the bed, sliding thick socks onto his feet.
“Can you guarantee my safety, or the safety of my sheep?” An ungrateful, thoughtless response.
Didn't mean to say that.
Comforting warmth curled around his right shoulder.
“No, I can’t guarantee it. But I can promise that Darach and I will do our best.”
It had to be good enough. It was good enough.
Folke grasped the hand on his shoulder before it could slide away. Brought it up to press his mouth to the knuckles. Fixating on a fine scar running across the back of defined tendons. Delighted in the tickle of hairs.
The mattress twanged in complaint as Finlay drew in. Wrapped his arms around Folke’s chest and pulled him backward so that they could meet for a kiss. He craned his neck as his body eased down, muscular thighs soon straddling his own.
Folke hadn’t intended for his hands to drift across a hard stomach to help Finlay back out of his clothes. Didn’t intend to find himself naked again, either. To take Finlay into his mouth and savour notes of salt. To cradle and lavish the stiff, veined shaft and shiver beneath every groan of approval.
In the distance, the kettle whistled, the shutters continued to rattle. Deafened by soft sucks and breaths mingling with scorching kisses of want. Gooseflesh scattered across his exposed skin as a hand enclosed his erection and teeth worked his lower lip.
Fingers stretched him open, slow and deliberate.
Finlay eased his cock in, until the heated skin of his pelvis met the summit of Folke’s backside, the slide of a scrotum like salacious velvet.
They remained fastened by a kiss, strong hips unhurried in their motion. Each deep, internal stroke teasing out a moan. His lover’s growls spoke of desire as of yet unsatiated, Folke’s own a pulsating river inside his ears. He twined both arms and legs around Finlay, needing their chests to connect, to feel their hearts beat in unity. Dragged his fingertips over winding sinew and scars. Tucked his touch into sleek hair.
Gasped Finlay’s name upon his lover’s demand, a heated whisper.
“Say my name,” Finlay growled again, low in his throat.
Folke did. His rasped, “Fin,” rolling into a hot mouth that couldn’t seem to bear parting from his.
Tension built until the muscles in his legs tightened, each deviously angled thrust impelling him closer to the edge of pleasure. All Finlay’s lowly spoken praise and grumbled swears pushing him to cry out, his body to convulse, and his toes to curl.
Folke trenched his fingernails into the supple skin of forearms, shaking under the force of his climax. Keenly aware of Finlay, buried deep inside him, pulsating in a rhythmic spill of pleasure underscored by a prolonged groan.
Dabs of come cooled on his stomach as Folke transformed into a boneless mass, pinned to the mattress by a muscular body collapsing atop him. As if for good measure, Finlay thrust into him several times more, lethargic, before leaving Folke flexing around the abrupt emptiness and the trickle of his come. An untidy kiss, and Finlay rolled off to catch his breath beside him.
With his legs dangling off the bed’s edge, Folke allowed himself to bask in the stark difference between the cold air brushing over his exposed skin and the heat radiating off his lover against his side. Ruminated on how much he preferred that heat, when before he would have forever chosen the cold—without even knowing what he was missing out on.
And God, he had missed out on so much.
“The things rattling around inside your skull are loud.”
Folke’s chest deflated with a soft laugh. “I’ll try to keep it down.”
Grunting as the mattress shifted. Socked feet dusted the wood flooring. Not a moment later, fabric pressed against his rump. Instinctively, Folke swung his hand down to hold the article before it could fall from between his legs.
“As much as I appreciate looking at you right now,” Finlay murmured, hovering, “I’m sure Darach would appreciate it more if we came down for dinner.”
Folke bolted upright. “Oh, bollocks.”
He rushed to redress, stumbling through the doorway in his hurry before Finlay. At the top of the stairs, sweet and savoury aromas clung to the air, more mouth-watering still once he reached the kitchen.
“Ye made it.”
“I’m sorry—”
A great wave of calescence washed over Folke before lips fell across his own. He was tempted to move his head to the side—away. The taste of Finlay still lingered on his tongue. Darach had to know, if only by the burn in his cheeks.
He had to know, flicking his tongue around Folke’s. The thought Darach deliberately tasted Finlay in his mouth sent desire straight down to his cock. In particular, as hands grasped his buttocks and reeled him in against that imposing body.
Darach rumbled low, “It’ll be my turn later.”
Why wait, Folke wanted to demand. Reminded of why when his lover moved away and dishes clacked together.
“Would ye finish setting the table for me?”
Right.
“Are you ever going to brush your hair?” Thomas, as soon as Folke stepped into the dining room.
“There’s no point while I continue to be shagged by Fin and Darry .”
“Ew.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Folke nearly dropped the plates still in his hold.
“I knew you had a mouth on you, Precious.”
He fired back, “Of course you did, I’ve been using it on you.”
“ Ew ,” Thomas repeated, more vehemently.
“How is the vegetable garden coming along?” Folke slid his free hand over Finlay’s back. He’d taken a seat at the head of the table again.
“It’d go a lot faster if you helped.”
Pointedly, Folke slid a plate toward Thomas across the table with only his forefinger, unbothered that it pushed a utensil to the floor. Its clatter didn’t quite drown out the insult of, “You blighter.”
“Believe it or not,” Folke said, unfazed,“I also have other things to do.”
“Like getting fucked by us.”
“Bloody Hell!”
He shouldn’t laugh. They were ganging up on him, it was cruel. Folke pressed his palm against his mouth to battle his mirth, lowering to the chair nearest the window—and within reach of Finlay. Darach too, once he’d take his seat across from him.
“What are ye all hollering about?”
Cutlery danced across the table’s surface with the thunk of what had to be a heavy pot .
“Me losing my appetite,” Thomas grumbled. “Oh come on!”
Loud complaints went ignored. Folke’s head knocked back under the force of Darach’s mouth, stealing the very air from his lungs with a kiss. He yielded under the weight of its desire. Quick to lose himself in the bristle of beard hair and tongue thrashing against his and warm hands cradling his face, all with a firmness that would permit no withdrawal.
As he twisted his fingers into rough wool and attempted to rise out of his chair, however, Darach retreated. Leaving Folke panting, mouth moving around a silent and confused, “What?”
In a heated murmur, “I canae resist ye, with a smile like that.”
Folke mulled on how he’d just been beset by a kiss, the sound of a wooden spoon hitting metal a distant noise. Less distant, the way Thomas ate, setting to it like an animal suffering some form of deficiency.
After only one taste, Folke himself needed to resist behaving similarly. A toothsome blend of pork, apple, and pasta. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d eaten pasta. Not even nostalgia could deny that, quite possibly, his lovers were better cooks than his mother had been.
Sorry, Mor.
Finishing with a flourish of his fork hitting the plate a touch too loud, Folke leant back and stifled a groan. His body ached for sleep so much, he looked forward to crashing into bed, mattress be damned.
Nevertheless, he gathered the plates and carried them on his forearm, keeping his other hand free by passing the cutlery into Thomas’. In the kitchen, surprisingly, Thomas remained agreeable as he dried the dishes, even put them away without demur.
“Maybe. . .we can go down to the village together to get some pots and trays. Might give your seeds a better chance.” Folke flicked his hands, casting off water into the sink. Turned to where he thought Thomas was, silent.
“I’m not going on a date with you.”
Weariness laced his sigh. He’d tried. Folke could say that, at least.