30. 30.
30.
T hey further roamed the park after that. Trees and grass and a nimiety of waterfowl in a lakelet nearby. And a playground with swings. Folke dragged droplet gatherings off a well-loved seat. Remnants soaked into his slacks once he sat, thick rope damp and rough on his palms.
Iron poles creaked, a significant weight now occupying the swing to his left. Darach’s feet slid through mud-slick grass, the weight of him lurching Folke’s swing. Coaxing a smile at the idea of such a large man amusing himself at a playground. What would others think, seeing him?
“I don’t think the parents will be impressed,” Folke said at the fifth pass of a gale.
“Dinnae fash,” Darach’s voice wooshed past. And again, “Have some fun.”
“I am having fun.”
Hard as it may be to believe.
Folke’s own feet slid through mud as he pushed back. Lifted them, allowing the swing to take him forward, his momentum only that of a cradle’s rocking. Just enough for his head to reel at the strangeness of it. He clung to the ropes on either side more firmly.
That same moment, feet pushed through the ground nearby, Folke’s swing raising back up. Strong hands caught him by the hips, stopping the hint of a sway he’d dwindled to. He tipped backwards, head connecting with Darach’s stomach. Smiled at the way the man’s touch traced down his exposed throat, stirring desire with such ease.
A swift kiss dropped to the tip of his nose, then those hands grasped his hips again. Pulled him back.
“Darach.”
Innocently, “Ay, mo leannan?”
While the swing pulled back further, and further still. All Folke had to do was grind his heels into the dirt to put a stop to it.
He didn’t, no matter the anxious flutter in his stomach.
A push against him. His world hurtled forward, hair whipped back, and insides lurched. The ground gone. Brought into a state of suspension by the upswing. Vertigo hit as it all reversed, the sound that left Folke undignified. His flailing caused the swing to twist and sway sideways.
Darach’s laughter finished him off.
He caught Folke by the waist to still him. “No a fan o’ swinging, are ye?”
Dampened rope caught on his fingers as he staggered away, miry grass squelching in his hurry.
Something hard and cold knocked into his chin, dull in its clang, ringing over Darach’s worried call. An arm around his midriff kept him from falling into mud. Fingers rubbed the hurt, a kiss to his forehead smoothed over his injured pride.
“Ye alright?”
Another kiss to his cheek, then those warm lips sought his mouth, the press sweet and tender and not nearly long enough.
Folke huffed. “I’m fine.” Throbbing chin notwithstanding. “I was caught off guard, is all. It feels too much like falling.”
Soft lips quirked upward against his, the firm pad of a thumb stroking his affronted face. Folke drew a lower lip into his mouth. Gave it a tentative suck. Delved his tongue past at the approving growl.
Lingering notes of coffee and chocolate bewitched as he kissed Darach. For minutes, or hours. Folke didn’t care, running his hands over anything he could reach under that heavy coat. Wishing they could be with fewer clothes.
Or naked entirely.
Especially once a strong grip found his rear, pulled him flush against that solid body. Warm and muscular and ensnaring.
Young voices jerked Folke back to the here and now. He pulled away, breathless, but not so far he would deprive himself of heated exhales.
I’ve had a wonderful time, he wanted to say. Hoping Darach would catch the hint, that he wanted to continue, but elsewhere . Preferably in the privacy of their home.
“This wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Folke blurted instead.
Thank goodness his lover had a sense of humour, expelling it against his mouth in short bursts.
“Reckon we can tackle the festival together?” asked Darach.
Don’t even joke about that.
“Oh, fuck,” Folke grumbled, remembering he had said they could go.
Darach laughed, moving his hold to Folke’s arm to guide him forward. “I see Finlay’s influence, already.”
The walk back to the car teemed with fingers sliding across palms slick with anticipation, down forearms, over strong biceps. Presses of chests into sides and swiftly delivered kisses to necks and jawlines and throats. Settling against the leather seat, Folke reached for Darach’s thigh. Thick and powerful.
Could he. . .?
The engine rumbled, and Folke ran an open palm over a prominent bulge, scarcely hidden beneath fine slacks, to a button. Metallic, circular indentations .
Should he?
Pressed and twisted. Until the button relinquished its hold on the clasp. The car jostled into motion, and he unfastened the rest. Stopped, as Darach adjusted himself. His thighs spread further apart.
About as blatant as a spoken invitation.
It took effort to unleash a cock not yet fully stiffened, impressive all the same. Velvet skin gliding hot under Folke’s unpracticed hand. He mapped the shaft with his fingertips unhurried. Took note of each vein, of the way pliant skin shifted, mesmerising. Bunching at the tip, gliding back down. Unveiling a smooth head. Folke toyed with its tip, using his forefinger only, heat stirring deep in his belly at Darach’s groan.
“Is—” Folke cleared his throat, clodded with desire. “Is this too distracting?”
Words strained inside a closed mouth. Eventually, Darach managed, “Naw.”
Folke squeezed the length. Unsure of what possessed him when he tilted sideways, and down. Inhaled the scent of salt, tasted it with a deft flick of his tongue. Wrapped his lips around the head of Darach’s cock.
Darach, who tasted of savoury enticement and a glimmer of sweat, moaned deep and low and unchaste. The sound journeyed down Folke’s centre, coaxing a shudder. Of need, and of astonishment, the steady thrum of Darach’s heartbeat against his tongue more galluptious than any warm beverage.
Fingers threaded his hair, not quite pushing down, but encouraging him to take what he could. Folke steadied himself with a hand on a muscular thigh, lowered further, jaw straining around the girth.
Use your tongue, Folke remembered, clumsily wiggling the muscle, lavishing in veins thick and sweet as he brought his mouth back up. Flirted with the slit, welcoming the unfamiliar mingling aromas of coffee and arousal and wilderness.
A scent unique to a dragon, perhaps.
Folke choked on a laugh, the notion too unearthly to fully comprehend, even now. Even with a lack of disbelief.
What shape did Beithir take, he wondered, wrapping his lips around the smooth head again, and took in as much as he dared. Not a lot, still enough to elicit a satisfied groan. For those fingers to curl against his scalp.
His body swayed with the car. Darach’s hand around his side steadied him, and eased him away. A string of saliva clung to Folke’s lower lip as he sat up, confused.
“Ye’re driving me wild.”
Breathlessly spoken. So much, Folke’s chest burned hot with want. Undermining the dull throb along his thighs, the warning Darach had so clearly given earlier. He reached for the coat, wrung fur in his grasp. His lips found a neck, skin soft and warm and flawless. He sucked. Kissed. Rewarded with another groan, and the car shuddering across what had to be the side of the road.
It jerked to a stop.
Before Folke could make sense of things, his back connected with the door, a great mass of a man pinning him against it. Exhales across his mouth incinerated all sensibility, and he fumbled between them in search of Darach’s cock. Wanting to feel him, the length of Darach inside, the slickness of a sweat-dampened chest sliding across his own and the captivating intimacy of it all.
An urgent kiss found him just as Folke uncovered what he wanted. Wrapped his hold around the thick shaft and gently pumped. Guided Darach closer with his left hand on a hip, dressed by a belt. Leather, its pliancy suggesting fair use. He parted his lips under the prod of a tongue, breath hitching with need.
“Ye’re being bold,” Darach spoke into his mouth. “An’ dangerous.”
A thrill slithered down his spine. Folke had never considered himself daring, shying from risks as much as anything else. Now, he tilted forward to chase after a man who could very well hurt him through passion. A man currently slipping out of his reach. He tucked his fingers into soft hair, holding a stately head in place to lavish in a kiss that would surely lead him to beg for more.
Darach eased away in full. The engine stirred from its idle putter, and they jerked into motion again.
All right, then. Folke could wait.
He could wait, although the drive back seemed to take rather long. Painfully, agonisingly long. Need transformed into a jitter in his stomach. Turned palms clammy.
Nervousness.
Folke dared, “What would happen if you got. . .too passionate?”
Thereby breaking a silence thick with sexual urgency. Further silence pursued, this time tinged with uncertainty.
“Part o’ what allows me to be human is my ability to control my emotions.”
His stomach flipped, and he bit down an instinctive, disbelieving laugh. No matter how difficult their reality was to imagine, Folke did not doubt either Darach or Finlay.
“I’d rather no’ find out what would happen if I alter while fuckin ye.”
Folke asked, “You’d crush me?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be difficult,” he mused. So quietly, he hadn’t thought Darach heard him over the car’s rambling.
“What’s that?”
Leaning his temple against the cool window, Folke took comfort in the vibrations strumming through his head. “Needing Finlay to be present whenever you want to bed someone.”
Eventually, “It’s why I’ve no’ been wi anyone for so long. Doesnae help we both have vastly different tastes in men.”
“And yet here I am. Lucky for both of you.” Blurted, again. Folke bristled at himself. Struggled to find an excuse for the petulant response. Too late to realise that his indignation at never being included in the decision to be shared hadn’t dissipated.
Like rain-soaked earth after a storm, it would be a while yet until the soil dried.
“Seems no’ even Finlay can resist someone o’ yer beauty. An ay, I do consider myself lucky.”
Meaningless flattery to assuage, or sincere appreciation?
If only he could be certain which.
Folke said nothing else, unwilling to turn this experience into mud.
Once the car jumbled off the road and jerked to a stop, he pushed away from the window. Opened the door. Snapped it shut. Muscle memory had him steady his crook—only, he didn’t have it.
Before panic could set in, “Here.”
Darach pressed the familiar hazel wood into Folke’s hands.
Right. He’d put it in the backseat.
He mumbled his gratitude, seeking the way back to the cottage on his own. The rain had let up here, too, but perspiring winds pulled across the hills, through his bones. Folke shivered. Not a moment later, a great arm rounded his shoulders, holding him against an even greater form.
Darach exuded warmth. A solace, so much like he had been during the storm. Helping Folke find the way back. Helped in so many other ways beyond that.
They stopped at the familiar clack of his crook meeting with the porch steps. Darach had yet to let go and Folke could not resist melting into him. Rubbed his face through soft fur.
Mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so. . .”
“Ye’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Lips pressed to his temple. Soft. Warm.
“I’m grateful,” Folke said, hushed. “For everything you’ve done for me.”
A brief swivel brought him nose to beard. He relished in the impress of lips to his forehead.
“So much,” he continued, throat swelling with emotion, “I won’t be able to repay you.”
“Och—”
Folke cut him off, “With money, maybe. After a while.” A long, long while. “I mean. . .”
What did he mean?
“Reckon I ken what ye’re gaun’ae say, mo leannan. An I’ll tell ye right now, ye’re wrong. Ye’ve already given me more than anyone before ye.”
Toying with fur was all he could do while pondering Darach’s statement. Folke thought he understood the meaning behind it, but longed to ask for clarification.
Before he could speak up, Darach said, “We should keep talking, but I’d rather fuck ye until supper time.”
Folke managed, “I’m alright with not talking,” through fierce embarrassment and, undeniably, arousal.
Air blasted out of his lungs, his back connecting with the door and lips with Darach’s. Calloused hands held him steady by the waist. His own fisted pliant leather, the clatter of his crook a distant racket as their tongues danced together in fervent want. A bare palm slid across worn wood behind him.
The door handle rattled. Folke lurched backward. Stumbled while manoeuvred through the entrance. Refusing to break the kiss, no matter how clumsy, undeterred by their teeth clicking together.
He shoved against fur-lined collars, pushing the coat off Darach’s broad shoulders. Darach pressed him against the nearest wall. Ground their crotches together. Swallowed Folke’s wanton gasp and sucked on his tongue before pulling away with a slurp. With a heavy thump, the coat dropped to the floor.
“Folke? What on Earth—”