Chapter 18 A Claiming
A Claiming
We don’t speak on the way back up to the main floors.
Not because there is nothing to say, but because there is too much, and the language for it is either extinct or too dangerous to utter.
At the top of the library’s stairs, we pause—me to catch my breath, Larkin perhaps to listen for any sign of the house’s displeasure.
The only sound is the slow, pulse-thick throb of my own blood in my ears, and the faint hush of distant radiators.
We emerge into the main hall as if nothing has changed.
But I know it has. The air here feels different, charged, each dust mote a tiny charged particle hovering in anticipation.
The tree stands sentinel by the hearth, draped in its scars and splinters of old glass, each light a bloodshot eye.
The fire in the grate is low, but it burns with the steadiness of something that intends to last the night.
Lane is already here. He sits in one of the battered club chairs near the fire, boots planted wide on the Turkish rug, hands knotted together in a pose that would be brooding if not for the faint tremor of exhaustion in his shoulders.
He looks up when we enter, and for a moment his face is illuminated by the fire and tree and nothing else.
Wolfish, wary, marked by the lines of a hundred sleepless nights.
Larkin detours to the drinks cart. The brandy decanter is half-full, and he pours three tumblers with the precision of an undertaker preparing for a visitation. He brings mine first, then Lane’s, then his own, seating himself on the arm of my chair rather than the empty seat beside.
The three of us sit, and the fire does its best to make a cocoon around us. Larkin raises his glass, the liquid catching the light, and says, “To pattern recognition.” He does not wait for us to echo. He drinks, and so do we.
Lane studies the contents of his glass, then sets it aside. “Did you find what you wanted?” he asks, voice rasped by too many years of arguing with the elements.
Larkin flicks a glance at me, as if considering whether to share the floor. “We found the origin story. Or enough of it to make the rest irrelevant.”
“Wasn’t that the point?” Lane’s hands flex, then release. “To make us all irrelevant.”
“Not you.” Larkin’s tone is flippant, but the undercurrent is jagged. “You’re the best supporting actor the house could dream up.”
Lane doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, and fixes Larkin with a look that is pure, uncut challenge. “And you’re the star? I’d have thought you’d prefer a director’s chair.”
Larkin smiles, slow and deliberate. “Maybe I do. But why not do both?”
They are circling each other, teeth bared, but the violence is mostly for show. I watch, aware of the triangulation, the way both of them use me as a fulcrum, a prism for whatever light they can’t admit to wanting.
The silence grows roots. I take a sip of brandy, let the heat flare behind my teeth, and say, “It doesn’t matter who’s in charge. The house wants what it wants. And it wants us.”
Lane looks at me, eyes pale as mercy. “You sound sure.”
“I am,” I say, though I’m not sure of anything except the pressure that builds in my chest with every passing second.
Larkin’s hand finds the curve of my neck, thumb pressing just above the pulse. He tilts my head, as if checking for cracks, then releases me with a gentleness that is almost apologetic. “Maybe it’s time to stop fighting it,” he says.
Lane’s gaze drops to my hands, folded in my lap. “She should just give in?”
Larkin’s smile is all teeth. “Isn’t that what you wanted when you didn’t tell her about the will?”
The room is so warm it borders on fever.
I feel the sweat prickling under my dress, the way the velvet clings to every curve, the way my body aches in places that have nothing to do with the cold.
The taste of brandy lingers, sharper now, as if the alcohol is burning away the last barriers of doubt.
The house seems to hold its breath, waiting.
Larkin stands, glass in hand, and offers me the other. “Come here,” he says, the words not quite a command but not a request either.
I go. Lane’s eyes track my movement, the tension in his jaw a silent accusation or plea, I can’t decide which. Larkin guides me to stand before him, the Christmas tree at my back, the fire making a halo around his head.
Larkin finishes the brandy in a single swallow, then sets the glass aside. “Get on your knees,” he says, voice so low I feel it more than hear it.
I kneel. The rug is coarse under my knees, but the warmth from the fire makes it bearable. Larkin’s hand tangles in my hair, the pressure just this side of painful.
He looks at Lane. “Lean back. Go on, since you think I’m the director.”
Lane hesitates, then sits back fully in the chair, his presence still enormous. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire and the distant, animal whine of the wind against the windows.
Larkin steps back, surveying us as if we are a tableau he has spent years arranging.
His hands are steady as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing the flat planes of his chest, the fine dusting of hair that trails down to the waistband of his trousers.
He lets the shirt fall, then removes the rest, piece by piece, never breaking eye contact.
Lane’s breathing is rough, audible even over the fire. I glance at him, see the way his hands clench and unclench, the way he fights to stay still.
Larkin approaches me first. He strokes my cheek, then traces my jaw with the back of his fingers. “You’re going to suck Lane’s cock,” he says, the words soft as velvet. “And you’re going to swallow every drop, like a good girl.”
My mouth starts to salivate. I glance at Lane, see the propriety and hunger warring in his eyes.
Larkin looks at Lane. “Take it out. Show her.”
Lane’s hands shake as he unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans, and frees himself. He is already hard, flushed and angry-looking, the head slick with pre-cum. I swallow, nerves and anticipation making my hands unsteady as I reach out and wrap my fingers around him.
He is so big I have to angle my wrist, and the heat of him is electrifying, alive in a way that makes the rest of the room recede. I look up, meet Lane’s eyes, and see the way his throat works as he swallows hard.
Larkin crouches behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Go slow at first,” he murmurs. “Let him feel every inch.”
I guide the head of Lane’s cock to my mouth, flick my tongue over the slit, taste salt and something musky, truly Lane.
Lane shudders, his hips stuttering forward.
I open wider, take him in a little at a time, my lips stretching around the girth.
The velvet of his skin contrasts with the hardness beneath, and every time I sink deeper, Lane makes a sound that is guttural, feral.
Larkin’s hands travel down my back, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip at the base. He pushes my dress up over my hips, exposing my thighs, my ass, and I am suddenly aware of how exposed I am, how little stands between my skin and the rest of the world.
Lane’s hand finds the back of my head, cradling it with a care that is at odds with the violence of his need. He doesn’t force, but he doesn’t let go, either.
Larkin slides his hand between my legs, finds me wet and wanting. He strokes with a surgeon’s precision, never losing track of Lane’s rhythm in my mouth. I gasp around Lane’s cock, the sensation of fullness and stimulation overwhelming.
“You look so good like this,” Larkin whispers, and I believe him.
He presses two fingers inside me, curling them until I arch my back, moaning around Lane’s thickness. Lane’s breath comes faster, his free hand gripping the arm of the chair so hard the knuckles go white.
“Don’t stop,” Larkin says, his voice low and urgent.
I don’t. I take Lane deeper, bobbing my head, working my tongue along the sensitive underside. His hips rock in time with me, each thrust a little more desperate, a little less controlled.
Larkin moves to kneel behind me, his own cock hard and leaking, pressing against my bare ass. He grinds against me, not entering, just letting me know he is there, a participant in the act.
Lane’s breathing becomes ragged. “Fuck, her throat feels so good,” he says, thrusting up into me, deeper, making me gag.
Larkin grins, leans in to whisper in my ear. “He’s close. You ready?”
I nod, the motion almost imperceptible.
Larkin pulls my hair back, exposing my throat, my jawline. “Finish him,” he says. “Swallow it all.”
I suck harder, faster, twisting my wrist at the base to add pressure.
Lane’s hips jerk, and he comes with a guttural, broken sound, his hands guiding my face as he empties himself into my mouth.
The taste is bitter and salty, but I take it, let it slide down my throat, swallowing again and again until he is spent and trembling.
Larkin releases my hair, his hands gentle now, smoothing it back from my face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and I shiver at the approval in his voice.
Lane collapses back into the chair, chest heaving, eyes glazed. He looks at me, and for a moment there is only awe.
Larkin stands, cock still hard, and pulls me to my feet. He kisses me, slow and deep, his tongue tasting Lane on my lips. He holds my face in both hands, as if memorizing the shape of it.
“You’re perfect,” he says, and I almost believe it.
The house creaks, settling around us, the Christmas lights glinting off the ornaments and the sweat on our skin. Outside, the snow is falling again, silent and relentless, erasing all evidence of what came before.
Lane is still catching his breath, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than I have ever heard it. “Thank you,” he says. He does not specify which of us he means.