38. 38.
38.
“ P ut the kettle on, Thomas.”
Folke was glad to flee into Darach’s arms, welcoming him with an eagerness he melted into. Pulled along in a careening dance, his feet slid and stumbled across kitchen tiles. The hallway runner. Flagstone. His surprised laughter rolled through the front room, where they slowed to a stop.
Likely stating the obvious, “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“I’d be delighted to teach ye.”
Lips swooped down upon his own. Hands on his waist guided him backward. A cushioned edge knocked into Folke’s calves. He plummeted to the settee, his own touch fluttering up to shoulders possessing the breadth of mountains. Darach lowered beside him, easing Folke down so he could rest atop the length of his lover’s body. Coaxed to meet that mouth again, tasting of apple and onion and want.
He liked kissing, perhaps overmuch. Loved dragging his tongue over soft skin and teeth, the tickle of facial hair. Besotted with the fragrance of wilderness and musk. With the way hands rubbed his back, easing away the day’s tension.
The storm outside, continuous.
“Tea!”
Folke jerked away, although didn’t remove himself from Darach. He was hard and had no desire for Thomas to know. Besides, he was comfortable and half debated sleeping right atop that lengthsome body. Would have suggested it, if he didn’t also want Finlay at his side.
Darach said, “Go to bed, Thomas.”
“But why? I made tea!”
“I want to spend time wi Folke.”
A foot stomped the floor, muffled. “This isn’t fair. I’m not even sleepy yet. I’ll be bored!”
“Ye’re acting like a wee bairn.”
Folke pressed his lips together to silence himself. It was almost as if Darach didn’t know that Thomas was, indeed, a child .
“There are plenty o’ books to amuse yersel wi, upstairs .”
“It’s fine.” Folke shifted to sit up. “Maybe we could continue with reading?”
Mighty arms yanked him back down, locking him in place against a wide chest.
Maybe not.
“Go, get out o’ my sight.”
Plenty more things thundered out of Thomas, even as his whinging faded into the hallway. Up the staircase. A door slammed shut.
“You’re not making me any more popular with him, you realise,” Folke said, dryly.
“I’ve waited long enough today.”
He would’ve asked for what, but between having his mouth devoured and hands clamping his rear, he had no opportunity to think, let alone speak up. Neither did he have an inclination to, dissolving into the titillating nibble on his lower lip. Desire encouraged him to grind his hips down, to delight in the feel of a hard shaft nestled snug against his pelvic bone, caught behind the fine wool of trousers.
From near the stove, “We’re almost out of firewood.”
Only then did they part—just long enough for Folke to say to Finlay, “That doesn’t surprise me.” Considering a fire had been burning nearly at all hours. “There should be some in storage outside. I’ll fetch it.”
Except, Darach wasn’t letting go.
“Finlay will get more,” he said, persuading Folke back down with a languid kiss. Added, “An he can take his time doing so.”
Unwillingness to obey what was, without question, a command hung heavy in the room. As did the silence, thick enough to rake into a wheelbarrow. Folke said nothing, only lowered his tired head to listen to a steady heartbeat.
This was between his lovers and he refused to interrupt their competitive quarrel. Even if he wanted to point out they’d agreed to share evenings.
“ Leave .”
Darach’s growl sent a quiver down Folke’s back. Ushered to sit up, he was robbed of his jumper and shirt. Heated kisses rained down the crook of his neck. A cupped hand slid from his chest down to his stomach. Lower. Fingers deft in the way they undid the clasp.
Arching into the caresses, Folke managed, “You two ought to work this out.”
He’d rather not have a repeat of their shouting match.
Fingers paused in their quest to pop the last button. Supple lips pressed to the ball of Folke’s shoulder.
“If I have to share ye, then I at least want to have time alone wi ye for as long as I can hold it in.”
His heart clinched with sympathy. With understanding.
Behind Darach’s sudden intensity, there lurked the need to have heated moments alone with him, just like Finlay could. It wasn’t fair he was being deprived of an intimacy everyone else was naturally entitled to. Neither was it fair Darach had been granted such an otherworldly gift, only to end up cursed by it.
“Maybe. . .maybe I can take it.”
Inquiringly, Darach hummed, resuming the delicate downpour of kisses along his collarbone.
Folke tilted his head, exposing his throat to the drag of teeth. “You as a dragon, I mean.” He lifted a hand to run fingers through soft hair. “You’re aware enough to know when you’ve taken a purposeful misstep. So maybe you won’t crush me.”
Heat soared into his face at the low rumble of a laugh, a mingling of amusement and disbelief washing across his skin.
“Threatening a wee human not to spill my secrets versus altering while in the middle o’ fucking are two different things, mo leannan. Besides,” Darach continued to mouth the skin just below his jawline, drawing out a moan, “I’m more likely to rip ye apart wi my cock than crush ye.”
A fierce shudder rinsed Folke’s body. Fingertips teased his nipples, hardened. The touch trailed down to his abdomen. Lower again.
“Oh.”
He hadn’t considered. . .such specifics. Marvelled at the way the thought thrilled him, regardless. Wondered if he would ever be allowed to experience Darach as Beithir. Careful in his wish that he would.
Palms slid across his thighs, a knee clicking as that large body lowered between them. Raising his hips at the tugs on his trousers, Folke found himself nude again, legs spread wide. Saliva cooled across his stomach in the wake of a tongue, slithering past his navel, down to his cock.
Wet heat enveloped him, and Folke threw his head back with an audible gasp. Curled his fingers into silk-like hair, gentle in the way he cradled Darach’s head even as a nose buried against his pelvis.
His lover’s name spilled from his lips in a fondsome whisper.
And he was ever so fond of Darach. A complicated man. Mysterious, still. Generous and noble. Deliriously skillful in the way he sucked up to the tip, swirled his tongue around the foreskin, glided his palm over the shaft, toyed with his scrotum. Dove back down. Up. Whispered hoarsely how beautiful he thought Folke was.
Gentle, too, until with a wet gasp, Darach relinquished him and herded Folke to move. Murmured instructions had him kneeling on the settee, bracing himself using the armrest. A determined touch spread his cheeks, exposing him to the damp rush of exhales. Fingers circled his entrance, deliberating.
“Ye’ve been bred.” Spoken deep and richly. Folke’s skin flooded with pinpricks. “He’s taking liberties.”
He stammered, caught between questioning if Finlay had truly left and recognising that behind the kind and noble demeanour, beyond Darach’s desire to have what anyone else could, there lay a reigning beast in need of control.
Darach didn’t like to share, had no choice but to, and maintained control only by telling Finlay how much of Folke he could have.
He repeated to himself, leave it for them to sort out .
—Gasped at a sudden intrusion, prying him open. Bolts of knee-weakening pleasure had him arching into the hand on his back, planting a socked foot onto flagstone to better steady himself.
At the sound of his lover undressing, he swallowed down a tenuous shiver of nervousness. Muffled footsteps. A belt buckle scraped the floor. The slicking of Darach preparing himself had Folke digging his fingers into the armrest with anticipation.
Finlay likely wouldn’t have gone much further than outside the room. Besides, Darach had shown he knew his limits, and Folke trusted him to know them now.
Even if he was being particularly zestful.
Greasy fingers grasped his waist, holding him in place. The slide of hot, slippery flesh across his entrance had him twitching with uncontrolled eagerness. Lips dragged over his spine, up to his nape. Sucked the skin there until it hurt.
“I’m gaun'ae fuck ye now.” Murmured hotly into his left ear.
Folke’s, “Alright,” escalated into a pained gasp at the inward press of a thick cock.
He’d not been given much time to rest. He was sore, yet thrust himself into the hand that rounded his hips and grasped his member. Grunted in pain despite it, at the rush his lover seemed to be in.
Folke reached behind him to set a palm against a muscular thigh, wordlessly requesting they slow down. Just a little.
Darach didn’t. Kept pushing into him until he fully embedded himself with a guttural moan, unmindful of Folke’s gripes and feeble complaints.
He gasped again at the abrupt withdrawal. Cried out as Darach slammed back into him. Swore and bit his forearm to muffle himself when his lover repeated it, manyfold. Yet he was no longer sure he wanted Darach to stop, caught in the coils of pain and star-sparking pleasure. In the way he felt the burn of an open palm against the small of his back.
Asked himself, would Darach give him lightning scars, permanently mark him like he had Finlay? The thought scorched a path of desire through him.
“I want it,” Folke rasped, trembling.
He wanted to belong to Darach and Finlay both, in every sense. Wanted the world to know he’d been wrecked by them. Never again would he be able to stand isolation, to sleep alone in his bed. Darach and Finlay would break his heart. A stone under a sledgehammer, shattered into multitudinous pieces. Folke might take the shards and try to give them to others, someday. Try, and fail, for the shards would crumble in his attempts until nothing but dust remained. Because no one else would ever compare.
He was ruined, irrevocably, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
A fierce growl, more than human. Suddenly, Folke was left empty. Clutching the settee’s old fabric and panting, unable to ask what was happening. Reached for the hand on his back. Still hot.
It, too, retreated.
Resonant, ragged breathing behind him. Darach struggled to control himself.
Folke knew he ought to take heed.
Desperately uttered, “Please.”
All that was needed for a fierce grip to slam back around his waist. For that stiff cock to thrust into him again with a force that sent him halfway across the armrest. For Darach to growl in an otherworldly way, for Folke’s skin to burn, and hair to stand on end. A crackling hum crescendoed. He bent to grasp the arm pushing against his back. Needing to feel the change, to chase away any spale of doubt about who his lovers were.
A sudden burst of smoke accosted his nostrils. Herbaceous and uniquely Finlay. Silent but for the way he extracted a pained hiss from Darach, who stilled all movement. Withdrew again.
Folke swung around. Clambered to straddle strong thighs and clasped Darach’s head in both hands. He captured lips parted around panicked breaths in a kiss, hoping to console, to block out Finlay’s presence.
Only you and I are here.
He willed the thought through the merging of their mouths. Reached around to grasp Darach’s member, to guide him back in. Clammy hands had found the globes of his rear again, held them apart. Folke buried his teeth into a soft lower lip to stifle his moan, pushing himself down until he sat in Darach’s lap, glutted and unrestrained in the way he swayed his hips.
Wrapping his arms around a powerful neck, Folke’s fingers knocked into Finlay. His face, those pronounced cheekbones, strong nose buried against Darach’s neck. He still had him clamped with his teeth.
Folke fought against the rise of his climax. He leant away, arching his back. Braced himself with hands on Darach’s knees. Thrust his hips up, guided by his lover’s hold. Let go of the repressed stranglehold he’d had on himself all his life and moaned out his pleasure. His cock bounced between them. Hitting Darach’s stomach, his own, coating their skin in the slickness of his euphoria.
Darach groaned, low and perilous, alongside Folke’s strangled cry. Shoved him down. Buried so deep and thrumming in time with the thumping of Folke’s heartbeat.
Despite his reeling, Folke stilled his movements, his breathing. Revelled in the feel of veins pulsating against his insides, the scalding rush of his lover's come. Exhaled in a quiver once Darach eased the crushing hold and pulled him into a slumping embrace.
A swift-handed search suggested Finlay had retreated again. Folke would have liked to include him, but sagged further against Darach as calloused palms stroked over his back. They brushed a rather painful area just above his buttocks and he audibly winced.
“Fucking idiots.”
Folke’s laughter too was exhausted. He felt himself drifting off where he remained with Darach inside him. Only vaguely aware of smoke and spearmint and a stinging, cooling wash as fingers tenderly slathered ointment onto his back.