I turn to look at him, and his face is illuminated from below by the dying candle, eyes green as glass. He smiles, the expression all intent, no mockery.
Lane rises, too, but it is a different kind of movement: careful, as if he is testing the floor for weakness. He approaches, but does not come close, choosing instead to lean against the marble sideboard, arms folded.
Larkin’s hand slides down the length of my arm, slow, and finds my wrist. He holds it, thumb circling the vein just below the surface. “She is the one,” he says to Lane, voice reverent and cruel. “The one we’ve been waiting for.”
Lane’s jaw goes hard. “Shut up,” he says, but it carries no real heat, only a tired affection.
Larkin leans down, lips at my temple. “It’s true,” he murmurs. “You feel it, don’t you?”
I do, though I could not articulate what it is: a sense offalling, of the rules having been rewritten in real time. I am aware of the wine, the hunger, the way the velvet of the dress catches at the small of my back when I breathe. I am aware of Lane’s eyes, storm-colored and intent, and the weight of Larkin’s hand on my skin, both heavy and ephemeral.
Larkin guides me to stand, his palm at my elbow, and then, with a practiced movement, he lifts me onto the edge of the table, clearing the empty plates and silver with a single, elegant sweep of his arm. The sound is an avalanche of crystal, but none of it breaks. The candles flutter in the draft.
He kisses me. This time it is not a question, but a declaration. His tongue tastes of anise and salt and the aftertaste of power. I kiss back, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him close enough to feel the tremor in his spine.
Larkin unzips his pants and frees his cock, stroking it with one hand, while caressing my thigh with the other.
I’m not myself. I’m under the influence. Of these men, the wine, this house. I don’t know what I’m agreeing to, why I’m agreeing to it, but I do.
Lane watches, unmoving, the kind of stillness that is not resignation but containment. He waits until I look at him, until I say his name.
“Lane.”
He crosses the distance in three steps, and suddenly he is there, pressing against me, the heat of him burning through every layer of fabric. He doesn’t speak, he just cups my face in both hands and kisses me, rougher, deeper, the kind of kiss that leaves bruises. I let myself be consumed, opening to the taste and the force of him.
Larkin’s hand is still at my thigh, sliding up, the velvet riding higher with every inch. He leans down, drags his mouth along my cheek, down my neck, biting at the tendon where it meets the collarbone. The sensation is lightning andthen nothing, a surge of pain and pleasure that leaves me shivering.
Lane is still at my mouth, his tongue demanding, his fingers digging into my hip. I am sandwiched between them, their bodies hard and real, their attention absolute. It is not a contest—it’s a collaboration, each feeding off the other’s hunger.
In a flash, Lane lifts me to standing, and Larkin unzips the back of my dress. The air hits my skin, cold and exhilarating, and I gasp. Lane’s mouth is at my shoulder, teeth scraping the bone, while Larkin’s fingers slide the straps off, letting the fabric pool at my feet.
They do not speak, but their eyes meet above my head, a flash of rivalry, of old secrets. Larkin grins, the edge of his mouth curling up, and Lane shakes his head, his eyes flashing with hunger.
“Go ahead,” Lane says, voice gravel.
Larkin runs his hand down my back, tracing the knobs of my spine, and then he lifts me, lays me flat on the polished mahogany. The candlesticks cast double shadows along the length of my body, the cool of the table a shock against my skin.
Larkin leans over me, his hand at my neck, thumb stroking the hollow there. His other hand cups my breast, gentle at first, then harder. He palms his cock, and I look at him. He’s long, thick. Not quite as big as Lane, but still impressive. He lines the tip up with my entrance and pushes in with one swift thrust.
I call out his name, almost unintelligible, but then he’s moving, thrusting a slow, steady, devilish pace, and I can’t think straight.
Lane frees his own cock, jerking it, mouth slack as he watches Larkin move in and out of me. I reach for him, and heleans down, his mouth is on my belly, kissing a path, teeth grazing, tongue circling the navel. He reaches my clit and Larkin leans back so he has room to lick me while Larkin thrusts.
I can barely breathe.
They are coordinated, a machine built for this moment, each movement amplifying the other.
I arch into Lane’s mouth, gasp when his tongue finds the perfect rhythm. Larkin is whispering things I can’t hear, but know without a doubt, they’re dirty, depraved. I crave more.
The sound I make when I come is not human. It is a thing born of hunger and desperation, the kind of noise that haunts old houses, along with the ghosts.
Lane sits up, and I see his cock in his hand is hard and throbbing. He adjusts me, sliding me over to the edge of the table without even disturbing Larkin’s thrusts.
“Open up, sweetness,” he says, taking my jaw in his hand and guiding his cock to my lips. I obey, not even questioning the order. Needing more of him, all of him. Needing all of them both. Larkin’s thrusts get faster, harder, deeper, and when I manage to look at him, I see a wicked look in his eyes as he relishes the show I’m giving him, sucking Lane’s cock while he fucks me.
“Too bad there’s not a third of us to fill all her holes,” he says and Lane moans. “You’d like that, little one, wouldn’t you?”
I moan too.
