Page 72 of Hollow

Flint laughs, ragged, grabbing Damiano’s neck, pulling him into a bruising kiss. “Like I would.”

I watch, breathless, as my fucked up fantasy unfolds. Two cocks. No me. Just them. Raw, graphic, everything I’ve imagined and more.

Damiano’s moans are sinful and wild. Flint pushes harder into him, the impact lifting Damiano, pressing him back against the metal. “You feel that, D?”

“Yeah,” Damiano grits out. He looks as desperate as I feel. “Fuck, yeah.”

Flint fucks him harder, the whole lighthouse rocking with the force of it, the wind a scream around us.

“Briar,” Flint groans. “Come here. Wrap your hand around his cock.”

I crawl to them, my fingers brushing Flint’s back, his hips. I find Damiano’s chest with my lips, his skin damp with sweat and the sharp tang of sex.

He grips my hair, holding me against him as I grip his dick and begin to pump. “Fuck, Briar,” he gasps. “Fuck, Flint. You’re going to make me?—”

Flint thrusts harder into his ass, cutting him off. “Do it. Let her see it. Let her see your cum all over.”

Damiano shudders, his whole body going rigid, his eyes locked with mine. I watch him explode beneath Flint, feel him lose control inside my palm, his heat and desperation spilling over.

Flint fucks through Damiano’s orgasm, each thrust wild and reckless, until he cries out and comes with a violence that shakes all three of us.

We tumble to the floor, a twisted heap of limbs and breathless chaos, the storm in us finally breaking.

It takes a while, but we’re silent for a minute, our breathing chaotic, the lighthouse suddenly still. Seagulls taunt us from outside the glass.

“Fuck,” Flint says eventually, like he can’t believe it. Like he can’t believe us. “Just...” He sounds raw and ruined. He trails off, lost in the aftershock, but I feel him. I feel Damiano, too. The three of us coming down, coming back, unsure of what we’ll find.

Chapter 24

Briar

The morning light filters through the kitchen windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished wooden floor. I’m sitting at the island counter, watching Mrs. Fletcher stress-bake what must be her third batch of muffins. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg fills the air, but there’s tension underneath the domestic comfort.

“I just don’t know what to do,” she says, vigorously whisking batter like it personally offended her. “My sister shouldn’t be alone right now, but I can’t leave you here with no one to?—”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” I interrupt gently, “I’m twenty-eight years old. I can manage on my own for a while.” I take a sip of my coffee, wincing at the heat. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not an invalid.”

She gives me a look that suggests she very much disagrees. “Your father would never forgive me if something happened while I was away.”

My father. Even when he’s not physically here, his presence lingers in every corner of this house. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“My father put me here to recover, and that’s what I’m doing.” I gesture to myself. “Look—I’m eating regularly, I’m sleeping better, I’m even getting some color back.” All true, though none of it has anything to do with the island’s healing properties and everything to do with two men who’ve somehow wormed their way into my life.

Into my body.

Into whatever remains of my heart.

The memory of the previous night in the lighthouse sends heat rushing to my face. I take another sip of coffee to hide it.

“You do have more color in your cheeks,” Mrs. Fletcher says, pouring batter into muffin tins. “But still, I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone in this big house.” She glances out the window with a worried frown. “Especially lately with those men tramping all over the property. It’s not right.”

A chill runs through me. She doesn’t know the half of it. Viktor’s men have been less visible this past week, but they’re still out there, watching, searching. The local police came and went, finding nothing, just as we’d planned, but Viktor isn’t giving up. Damiano spotted two of his guys at the edge of the property only yesterday.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, remaining steady. “I promise to keep the doors locked and the alarm set. No one’s getting in here without me knowing.”

She slides the muffin tin into the oven with more force than necessary. “At least call your father. He’s been asking about you, and I’m tired of being the go-between.”

I grimace. Maxwell Waters and I have managed to limit our communication to brief text messages since I arrived on the island—enough to assure him I’m still alive, and not enough to actually connect.

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