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“No, little saint,” he says, kissing my cheek with tender affection. “It’s too much of a risk.”
How can he do this? How can he remain so cool-minded when all my thoughts and words have become, like the water surrounding us, a babble. A constant murmur of need and please and pleasure.
“Please,” I whisper, making a senseless swipe for his cock beneath the water’s surface.
It’s the magic word, but it does nothing. Instead, Rory gives a small laugh, as though I’m too adorable for my own good, and I sense the swelling in his head — the other head, the one with the smug, pretty face on it and the soft, pouty lips — as I plead to be filled by his cock.
He brushes his nose against mine. “You will be rewarded with orgasms,” he informs me quietly.
When I declare in a mournful tone, “I want you in me,” only then do his eyes slide shut, and he releases a shudder as though to expel negative energy.
He swallows, and it’s weird seeing Rory thrown like this. I did this.Idid this? My mind is so hazy I can’t be certain, dizzy with lust and longing for the boy in front of me…
But also for the boy behind me.
I nuzzle Rory’s cheek with mine, turning to face Finlay. He’s still standing motionless on the sandy bank, his eyes hollow and his lips parted as he watches Rory and me entwine together in the loch. His green eyes meet mine, shimmering vividly in the moonlight, and I’m shocked with the bolt of realization that it’s not just me who’s full of lust and longing.
“Finlay,” I whisper into Rory’s ear, and I raise my arm in his direction. I grab uselessly at the water, my fingers dipping into wetness as though inviting Finlay here, stirring something within me — an intuition, a knowledge, that I need Finlay as more than a punished witness.
I’ve punished him too much in the past, often accidentally.
I want to make it up to him.
I want to make Finlay happy.
Finlay gazes at me, his brows pinching together, as though trying to understand me. Rory swivels his head in Finlay’s direction and murmurs, “No, little saint,” he tells me, this time more serious. I’m growing increasingly irritated by how much Rory denies me everything I want.
I don’t care if I’m being greedy and selfish. The boy between my legs has been a thousand times more so.
So I speak the language of the elite. I propose a deal, for Rory’s ears only.
In the hush of the water’s flow, I murmur against Rory’s lips, “If you won’t be inside me, then I want Finlay with me.”
It’s pathetic and spoilt and thoroughly bratty, and I don’t blame Rory when his silver eyes narrow at me. With pincer-like fingers, he holds my chin in his hands, his eyes brilliantly intense in the moonlight. I refuse to turn away.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Of me, wrenching apart my soul and uttering my darkest desires to Rory on a fencing piste? That yes, I would quite like to engage — not in gangbangs but group sex. To be surrounded and enveloped by arms and legs, smothered in kisses and cum.
“Fine,” Rory concedes, and it’s one word. It’s one single word, but it opens up an ocean of possibility.
He turns his dark blond head in Finlay’s direction and manages to shout in something that still resembles a bored, unaffected drawl, “Oi! Fin! Shift your arse and get over here. You’re wanted.”
