19. 19.
19.
H is heart refused to calm down. Folke drifted up the stairs to the lavatory, alone, and still it pummelled his rib cage. He took the time to bathe and it kept pounding. He even brushed his hair, his teeth. Redressed in clean clothes, and waited until the sounds of Darach and Finlay washing up pooled into the bedroom.
Still, his heart continued to thrash and nerves twisted his stomach into a hundred knots.
Folke waited on the bed, the door ajar. Listening to the two men converse in Gaelic. Unfazed, like this was something they did everyday. Tempting him to run back to his sheep, safely tucked away in the barn. It wasn’t fair they were locked up, just so he could. . .
The men’s voices carved the hallway, flinging Folke into action. Suddenly remembering what Eleanor had said about there being dust everywhere. And hay . Oh, God—
“Aw, you got dressed up for us.”
Folke froze mid-plan to tidy, standing somewhere between mirror and bed. He worried the buttons of his cotton-blend shirt, still stiff from lack of use. He’d worn it exactly once. Alys had told him the deep blue brought out his eyes, right before a chaste, misplaced kiss to the corner of his mouth. After she told him she didn’t know how to cope with not being seen.
“Uh-oh.” Finlay drew near. “We’re losing him to daydreams again.” Bare arms enfolded Folke. His hands fluttered up to equally bare shoulders. Skin soft, radiant with the smell of leather—carbolic soap.
“Canae have that.”
For such a colossal man, Darach knew how to slither about undetected, now behind Folke. Hands moved past his hips to snake under the shirt. Calluses rough and hot against the skin of his stomach. Finlay’s lips muffled his startled gasp once he realised both men were nude. Completely . The kiss full of tongue and sucks, ineffectively distracting him from the muscular bodies pressing into him. Erections unmistakable. Nudging into his hip, the small of his back. Two sets of hands roamed over Folke’s own, clothed frame. Undoing buttons, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. Giving him no opportunity to map either bodies with his palms. To feel for character and strength.
His shirt rustled to the floor, the tug at his waistband a fraction too forceful. Buttons popped as loudly as Folke’s harsh swallow. Darach’s mouth ignited a path over the side of his neck, his chest sweltering against Folke’s back, hands still pushing up the undershirt. Forcing the kiss with Finlay to an end with a wet suck, needing to raise his arms. The well-worn cotton slid over his head. Discarded, somewhere to the floor. Leaving him feeling dishevelled and exposed.
More so, when Finlay eased his trousers and briefs forward, then yanked both past his hips in one, abrupt move.
Folke stilled in Darach’s arms, his quivering, panting breaths lodging in his throat.
“Fuck,” Finlay breathed. “Look at you.”
“I can’t,” Folke choked out. On such unfamiliar ground, it was like being stranded in the hills. No rope to guide him.
Were it not for musclebound arms holding up his useless, dangling body by the rib cage, Folke was certain he would have slid to the ground into a boneless heap of blistering mortification.
In particular, when Darach’s manhood pressed, unhindered, between the cheeks of his backside. Slid up, and down. Husky laughter, tame and rumbling, accompanied sucks and kisses delivered to Folke’s earlobe. Just behind his ear. To his nape. Darach lingered on his neck, mouth scalding, the exhales of his nose equally so.
The sucking became painful, eliciting a bewildered yip.
“ Whyte ,” Finlay growled low. As if in warning.
Darach soothed the hurt with his tongue. Deft in the way it swirled over the skin. Leaving tracks of saliva to simmer in air turned too hot.
“Ye alright?” Whispered into his ear.
Folke wasn’t given a chance to respond with much more than a grunt, carried backward. Trousers and briefs dragged off the rest of the way, the worn rug rough under the soles of his bare, uncertain feet.
He sank directly into Darach’s lap, sucking in his shock when a hand wrapped around his length, stiff and aching. Darach’s own pressing up under his scrotum and shaft. Folke’s head spun. His hips twitched, involuntarily. He reached up behind him to dig his fingers into a strong neck.
Melted into the feel of bare skin against his back.
A low, pleased growl from Finlay, whose hands found their way to Folke’s shins. “How far do you want to go?”
He thought the man had knelt between his parted thighs. Ascertained by rubbing his right leg against a defined side. Muscles rippling with each movement. God. If only he were given a chance to discover their bodies, but both men were adamant in touching him. Palms sliding and stroking Folke within an inch of his life, bringing his skin to fever-point.
“Wh-What?” Folke managed once he realised Finlay had asked him something. It wasn’t easy to focus when Darach’s practised fingers slid up and down his shaft. When the man’s erection nudged the underside with each subtle movement of his hips. The friction tightened his stomach, made him gnaw his lower lip.
An amused snort. “How far do you want to take this?”
“I–I want to orgasm.”
That was usually the end result, wasn’t it?
“Obviously.”
Firm hands raised his legs, one after the other, slinging them over Darach’s thighs. Thinner lips and hard stubble sought a trail up Folke’s stomach, teeth scraping over the line of hair leading to his navel. Kissing the rest of the way up to his mouth. Hands followed. Paused. A light smack, and Darach’s hold eased off Folke’s ribs. Held him firmly by the hip instead.
Folke couldn’t dwell on that.
Finlay fixated on his lower lip. Teased and nipped until it throbbed. And kept going. Forced Folke’s mouth wide open by pinching it between fingers. Obscenely lapped into his mouth. Stuck his finger in, gliding it over Folke’s tongue, the excess saliva.
“Do you want us inside you?”
A question punctuated by a pinch to his right nipple.
His gasps ragged, Folke strained a pitiful, “Yes.”
Darach didn’t relent, swirling his palm over the head. Every one of the man’s breaths burning his left ear. Each whispered, “Ye’re beautiful,” and “I want to taste ye,” and “Sink deep into yer body,” wedging Folke further into the cramped space between panic and delirium.
He closed his mouth around the finger, needing to swallow. Sucked on it, once he remembered—from somewhere in the far-reaches of his mind—that this could be enjoyable for Finlay. Who rewarded him with a deep, lust-filled groan.
Folke’s hips involuntarily undulated under Darach’s attentive grip. The sharpness of his inhales spiked. His stomach grew taut, abruptly. He cried out, unintelligible. Dug his fingernails in harder. Body violently jerking forward as he spilled himself to the sound of both men cooing between teasing laughter.
He slumped against Darach’s wide chest, his own heaving. Limbs gone slack. A press of lips and beard hair to his temple prompted him to turn his head into the man’s neck. Nuzzled, while his wits struggled to return to him. His mind for once blissfully vacuous.
“Been holding that one in a bit too long, hm?”
Folke couldn’t muster a rebuttal. Although did become increasingly aware of a come-slick hand still on him. Casually gliding along his sensitive member. He squirmed.
“We’re far from finished wi ye.”
A promise, or a threat. Folke had no energy to spare on worrying, content to feel the vibration of Darach’s throaty murmur against his lips.
Expelled a noise of complaint when he was hauled off and onto the bed .
Folke made a valiant effort to sit up. Succeeded, mostly. Finlay caught his chin with a few fingers. Tilted his head up. Devoured his mouth with a languid, drawn out kiss. Ending too soon all the same. Folke didn’t much care for the stink of cigarettes, but on Finlay, it was as luxurious as coffee.
“Who do you want first?” Finlay purred into his mouth. Pulled away with a sharp nip to his lower lip.
Folke flinched. Rubbed at the abused flesh with the back of his hand.
His thoughts were clearing. Breathing calmed. Although his limbs continued to feel like jelly, arm quivering where it supported his weight.
“Both?” he ventured.
Even though the thought still completely overwhelmed him.
For some reason, his response amused them.
“You won’t be able to fit both of us just yet.”
To make his point, whatever it was, a rough hand grabbed Folke’s and yanked him forward. His fingers collided with something velvety.
Hot.
Hard.
Folke started, realising, yet didn’t let his shock stop him from feeling around the length.
And it was lengthy .
Curved, veins thick, running up to an exposed head, damp with excitement. He feathered his fingertips around. Under. Back up into a thicket of coarse hair. Unable to resist feeling over a stomach, hairs failing to mask uneven texture. Not unlike what Folke had discovered on Finlay’s face. Thin tendrils of scarring, jagged and forked like lightning.
Finlay caught his hand. Pulled it away. “Don’t get distracted.”
Biting down a flurry of irritation, Folke allowed Finlay to guide him over to Darach. Mattress wobbling, springs popping. Now a little wiser, he took care in ascending the man’s stately form. Eased his knees on either side of strong hips, hovering over Darach’s erection. His own, satiated member a whisper away from connecting. He glided his fingers over a toned stomach. Greedily mapping each divot and scar. Some long and thin, others round and puckered.
Finlay shoved Folke forward. Kept pushing against his upper back despite his indignant yelp. Until his face pressed into a muscular chest, fine hairs tickling his nose.
Admonishingly, “Be gentle , Dunne.”
The response, a scoff.
Darach’s hands rounded Folke’s shoulders. Brushed down his arms, across his back. Soothing the frown that had set itself between his eyebrows. Then cupped his skull, guiding him forward. Into a kiss that did nothing to ease Folke’s increasing awareness of Finlay now on the bed. Behind him.
Folke lowered his backside. Or tried to.
A steadfast grip on the globes kept him up. Squeezing and kneading and spreading .
Darach’s tongue delved deep into his mouth. The hand cradling his head keeping Folke from squirming away at the sensation of a fingertip circling his. . .
Unmentionable .
Slick and slippery. Adding pressure.
Dipping into him.
Folke yelped, the horror-struck noise muffled by Darach’s lips. He arched up, tearing away from the kiss.
“It’s alright,” Darach crowed. Following to latch onto Folke’s throat with a firm mouth. “We’ll be gentle.”
Folke’s fingers hurt where he twisted them into the sheets on either side of a wide rib cage. Vacillating between running off and staying to find out where this could go. Although he now had a fairly solid idea, as their earlier words returned to whirl around his head.
Inside.
Sink in deep.
He’d thought them words of passion, not a promise.
“Relax.” Anger clipped Finlay’s command. The gentle kisses across Folke’s back doing little to soothe. “You’re going to break my finger off if you don’t.”
“You didn’t warn me,” Folke croaked, bringing his hands up to hide his burning face. Clenching around the intrusion, unable to help it. “I didn’t know.”
Lips raining kisses over his shoulder blades and throat stilled, both men freezing in place. They eased away, the finger slipping out. Strain shook Folke’s thighs. He lowered to sit, trying to ignore the thick erection under him, nestled snug against his.
“Och, sweet Folke.” A tremor tainted Darach’s sonorous tone. “I’m sorry. I didnae think—here.”
A conciliating touch eased Folke’s left hand away. Shepherded down, until his fingers splayed over a hard chest. Within, a too-quick heartbeat. Thump-thump-thumping against his palm.
“You’re scared too?”
Thump-stutter-thump.
“Terrified.” An admission barely audible.
Darach cupped both sides of Folke’s face. Pulled him down into another kiss, he thought, but their lips only brushed. Humid, cinnamon-laced air whisked into his mouth. Folke drew it deep into his lungs, relishing the comfort it brought. Grateful for it. He closed his lips around Darach’s. His own hands coming up to slide over a soft throat. Thumbs pressing to feel for the pulse.
Still thundering.
In a whisper, “Why?”
A short, thoughtful hum. Clinging to it, a note of amusement, perhaps disbelief.
“If I’m no’ careful, I’ll fall in love wi ye.”
Folke’s heart skipped a beat.
Strange, the happiness such words brought him. Like he’d been longing to hear them throughout his lonely existence .
Fool.
Fleeceable virgin.
Darach might only be saying whatever it took.
Yet he’d said it so quietly, as if only to himself. Not for Finlay or even Folke himself to overhear.
Folke startled at hands gliding over his rear. Up, around his sides, coming to settle across his chest. Gently pulled him backward to rest against Finlay’s. Kisses to the crook of his neck. A stiff member nudging him between his thighs. Sliding.
Finlay mumbled something. It sounded a lot like an apology, buried into his skin. Although Folke was given no chance to respond. Work-worn fingers curling around his manhood had him sucking air in through his teeth. While a deft, oiled finger found its way between his cheeks again. Teased at the whorl, more intimate than anything he’d been given so far.
“Yes?” Lowly growled into his right ear, sending a shockwave of arousal down to his member, swelling.
“Yes,” he replied, more resolute than he felt.
Pressure.
Breach.
Barely the tip at first. Diving deeper, up to the knuckle. Folke bit down a gasp. Dug his nails into the supporting forearm across his chest. Darach’s hand on him helped, although nothing could distract him from the strangeness of what Finlay was doing to him.
“Doing so good,” Finlay drawled with a nip and suck on the lobe of his ear. “Bend over.”
Folke did, much preferring the strong request to being shoved. He bent over Darach, palms sliding over the defined stomach. He stole what opportunities he could to graze exploratively, eager to memorise every stretch of smoothness, hair, and scarring.
“Two, now.”
Two what?
“ Oh .”
Folke fought the need to squirm away. The feeling invasive and slippery. He focused on how Darach stroked him over the sides, reassuringly, and leant in again. Brought their lips together, hungry for a kiss. Several.
Many more.
Still not enough.
Needing it to deepen, Folke dragged his tongue over Darach’s lips. Tasted a smile upon them before they yielded and he dove in. He laid himself atop that elegant body, his stiff member tucked between. If Folke were to be honest with himself, fingers diving in and out of him wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he first thought. Not comfortable, but neither was it awful.
“Another.”
Folke braced himself, stopping mid-tangle with Darach’s tongue. He threaded his fingers into soft locks of hair to distract himself as discomfort became an ache. Finlay’s muttered encouragement sounded half-hearted. It didn’t help that he seemed close to losing his patience, working those digits in faster, more carelessly. Folke hid his strangled grunts in Darach’s beard and raised his backside up, not keen on the current angle.
Finlay swore. The fingers retreated, leaving him empty. “I can’t wait any longer.”
The faint rustle of paper, and distinct slicking. Salacious . Folke stilled once oily hands grasped his hips and pulled him off Darach.
“Turn around, minx, so I can look at you.”
Nervously, Folke did, taking care not to maim Darach in any way, who moved behind him, sending springs trilling. As Finlay guided Folke to lie on his back, a heavy thigh obstructed his way to the pillow. His lips parted around a question he couldn’t ask, focus pouring into the way Finlay’s strong grip moved his legs.
Up, until his knees met with his chest.
Folded double.
Entirely vulnerable.
The mattress dipped under Finlay’s weight, settling ever closer, pulling at the sheets Folke clutched. He jerked his head to the side, his heart stuttering with fright. A subtle scent of salt trailed up his nose. Something hot and firm pressed along his left cheek.
Against his opening, too.
Folke reached up for anything to hold, needing to brace himself again. His knuckles connected with the heated flesh resting against his face.
Oh .
Before he could set on a journey to discover Darach’s erection, smoke brushed his face. His mouth caught in a kiss, sloppy and tinged with urgency, while Finlay’s slick member pressed insistently.
“I’ve decided, I’m taking you first,” Finlay rasped, hands grasping the underside of his thighs. “Once you get better acquainted with Whyte, you’ll thank me.”
A stronger push into Folke’s body, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Darach threaded their fingers. Held them tight as the slickened tip pushed in. Too late Folke swallowed against a nervous, pained moan. Mortified further as Darach soothingly shushed him, combing gentle fingers through his hair. With his freed hand, Folke clutched at Finlay’s biceps. Resisted the urge to shove him away.
It wasn’t agonising. Neither was this pleasant.
Wasn’t expecting it to be like this.
At all.
Many more kisses dropped to his throat, his jaw. His mouth, into which Finlay groaned a swear as he sunk further. Folke tensed at the sharp pain, knees knocking into Finlay’s jaw in an attempt to close his legs.
Another groan, and an intense grip to the underside of his knees. “ Relax . You’re going to squeeze the come out of me.”
Folke’s own groan was long, scored by hysterics. That man kept finding ways to embarrass him. New methods to be uncouth. Folke would have laughed if he weren’t so preoccupied by enduring.
And God, he was being cracked open. Darach’s gentle touches didn’t ease the tension in him.
Too soon, Finlay moved his hips. Sliding out, almost . Back in with a slow, steady glide. Out again. Pushing more of himself in every time, filling Folke to bursting point. Stretching him, hurting him.
Further ghastly sounds clawed out of his throat. Of pain, maybe pleasure. He clapped a hand over his mouth, unable to silence himself otherwise.
Someone peeled it away. Pressed something else in its stead. Hot, velvety skin catching his every bewildered huff. Stiff yet soft, veins prominent under the glide of his tongue.
Darach’s groan felt like a reward.
Finlay’s, “God. Fuck ,” and the wet smack of slippery skin against sweat-slick skin bolstered Folke’s arousal.
Emboldening him to mouth at Darach further. To touch it. Slide his fingertips over the shifting skin. Explore its astonishing girth.
Now understanding what Finlay meant.
The hold on the underside of his knees shoved airy grunts out of him. Each of Finlay’s thrusts more forceful than the previous. Making it a challenge to hold Darach in his mouth properly.
Not for a lack of trying.
Something rattled inside of Folke at a particularly hard, angled lunge. Spikes of pleasure shuddered through him, prickling his skin. Folke gasped, tensing. Yelped, when it happened again.
“Oh, there you are.” Despite his breathlessness, the grin in Finlay’s voice was unmistakable.
He pistoned into Folke again just so, repeatedly. Until he became an awful mess of whimpers and incoherent pleadings. Until fire lit under his feet, crawled up his legs, and set his entire body alight. Strings of moisture pelting his chest doing nothing to douse the torrid pleasure forcing his body into a twist.
Folke’s sharp cry drowned out Finlay’s. Distantly aware of a hollowness as those relentless thrusts finally stopped and more fluid arced across his stomach.
Rendered speechless and incapacitated, Folke could only lie there in Darach’s hold, his chest heaving. Unable to fight the convulsions in his limbs, splayed out.
Finlay’s forehead connected with his own, mingling their rapid breaths. The kiss delivered to his lips was strangely chaste, yet tasted of gratitude.