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“I rank myself pretty highly,” I continue breezily, as though I hadn’t said anything at all outrageous, and I part my legs so that all three of them can see just how drenched I am. My confidence is a well-honed act born from years of performing on stage; my heart is hammering madly inside my chest and fit to bursting. “But this time… this time, I think it’s the guys who win.”
I slip my fingers between my legs, brushing lightly at my folds. I keep my lowered gaze steady on Rory the whole time as I wring the remainder of pleasure from my blissed-out body, convulsing happy and naked among the grass.
And Rory — Rory doesn’t react. Not in ways I expect, anyway. His hand tightens minutely against his knee. His face shutters, the rise and fall of his chest the only giveaway that something vast is about to happen imminently.
I’d never cared for the idea of coming untouched, though I managed it with Luke at St. Camford. For me, there’s too deep a pleasure in touching, grasping, claiming, kissing, with hands and tongues and mouths. But I can’t deny this. The strength of willpower, the mental fortitude, that Rory must possess to feel his pleasure inflate with need and to deliberately do nothing about it… it’s incredible. To bob along, awaiting release, patient yet confident that his time to shatter will, quite literally, come… I’m breathless just watching him, his closed-down facade, as though all his concentration is on the pleasure pulsing through his cock, the source-magic making it rise and rise.
Finlay and Danny watch us like a tennis match, captivated by the fingers meditatively grazing at my plump pink folds, and then by the powerful, knowing self-control radiating from Rory. They rock into each other, hips grinding, cocks touching, cum unleashing in slow, wet spurts. The island is a graphic bubble of heaven and hedonism, designed purely to get Rory off. Finlay licks across Danny’s mouth and up toward his ear, his tongue dancing wet and hot against his skin. Their palms wrap around each other’s cock, trying to provoke the other into hardness again. It doesn’t take long for their cocks to prop rigidly against their stomachs once more, already glossy and slick with use.
I watch them all in dreamy, contented bliss, feeling my own body opening up and blossoming. My fingers enter my sopping cunt with a delicious squish, soaking me, coating my skin, and as I stare at Rory with challenge firing in my eyes, I dare him. I dare him to feel the way we do tonight. I dare him to fall. I dare him to break.
“I dare you to come.”
Rory’s eyes suddenly screw shut. He judders on the ground, his fingers flexing, scrabbling at wildgrass and clutching green stems in bunches. Just as I wonder to myself who he’s going to look at as he comes, he jerks his head back, his body sprawling open as he leans back on his forearms, his face naked and shining up at the moon.
He came. He came without touching himself.
I stare at him, open-mouthed. Rory drops to the ground, overcome with orgasm, a deep, male groan ripping from his throat like an exorcism. His orgasm is an act of liberation. It’s all-consuming, fiery, a cleansing. We watch Rory shudder on his back, all his civility breaking apart until it seems he’s more animal than man, his eyes open but unseeing, his cock still straining hard beneath fabric as the moon bathes him with all-seeing light.
I withdraw my plunging fingers from my entrance and crawl across the grass to watch Rory more closely. He grabs my drenched hand with a predatory growl and slowly lifts it to his lips, suckling softly at my dripping fingertips, claiming all my juices as his own. My stomach coils, burning deep with satisfaction.
Eventually, Rory’s elevated breath returns to normal and he blinks with frozen shock at the darkened sky.
“Right, whit fuckin’ magic trick’s that?” Finlay says, looking stunned. “Ye better be teachin’ it tae us.”
Rory doesn’t appear to be in a fit state to teach anything. He runs a weary hand down his face, still lightly jerking on the ground and gazing dazedly at the full moon. “Come,” he murmurs, sounding thoroughly broken in this one syllable alone. He waves a gesturing hand at Danny and Finlay. “Come closer.”
We crawl onto our sides, surrounding Rory, soaked and wet and covered in sin.
“Is it just me,” Danny murmurs, looking equally stunned, “or does it feel kinda hot?”
My eyes fly to Rory’s. The ambiguity of Danny’s statement is all-encompassing. Because it’s not just a remark about Rory’s innate sensuality; it’s a pearl of self-awareness. We’re naked in winter on this island, and yet the others don’t see, they don’t realize or even seem to remember… Before tonight, it had seemed lost on them that…
That magic is real.
But now… Perhaps there’s no denying the crackle and spark of tonight, of three bodies chained by grief and want. The scents and taste of sex are hot in the air, evidence of a much-needed night of decadence, to be remembered for the rest of time. Limbs tangle. We knot together with kisses and cum. Male. Female. Threads. Tapestries. Weaving, weaving into one…
Magic.
We sleep. We dream.
We do not have nightmares together.
It’s the only time. On this island.
This island…
This island, thrumming with arcane magic, is the one thing in life that makes sense.
8
Sunrise spills across the sky with a brilliant pink glow. Beside me, Finlay and Danny nestle together deep in sleep, their breaths full and relaxed, their faces frown-free and at peace, cocks lightly hard but at rest. I remain snuggled between them, Finlay’s leg slung over mine, mine over Danny’s, as I gaze up at the morning sky, a new level of contentment reached.
Then, in the distance, I note quiet chatter emerging from the radio and have to hold back my sigh. I don’t want this, this moment to be ruined. Serenity wiped by one stupid, thoughtless word from the enemy side as they slander the pure-hearted boy they’ve chased from us. I want the radio to go away, to not impinge on our privacy. I just want to be curled up and at peace with my boys — all of them. To cherish and be cherished. To have many, many nights like last night, and with Luke by my side.
I tilt my head in the direction of the noise and find Rory sitting with his arms folded beneath the thickest tree in the clearing. He’s cross-legged, lounging against the trunk as if in meditation, his expression as pensive and philosophical as a lonely, blond Buddha. A canopy of leaves hangs like a dreamy willow, creating a small shelter for Rory to reside inside, almost undetectable in the shade had it not been for the murmurings on the radio.
I pick myself up, dusting shreds of grass from my naked body, and pad across our Eden to Rory. His eyes are closed as he listens, but a faint smile crosses his lips when he hears me approach. As I sit beside him, his posture doesn’t change, his arms still folded and his eyes still shut, but in a serene voice he calls to me, “Good morning.”
