Page 65 of Holly & Hemlock
“We’re going to claim you as deeply as we can.”
I let them move me and get on my hands and knees, ass in the air, Larkin still inside me. Lane kneels behind, lines up, and pushes into my pussy beside Larkin, the two cocks stretching me almost to the point of pain.
The sensation is obscene, overwhelming, but I want it, crave it, and I bear down, rocking back to take them both.
Larkin grabs my hair, pulls my head up so I can see our reflection in the glass of the window: me, impaled, the two men holding me open, every inch of my body claimed.
“Look at yourself,” Larkin hisses. “Look at what we do to you.”
I do. My mouth is open, eyes wide, cheeks flushed and shining. Lane’s hands bruise my hips, Larkin’s grip tight on my shoulders. I look unrecognizable, feral and triumphant.
They fuck me together, perfectly in sync, the two cocks sliding against each other inside me, filling me completely. Each thrust is a wave, and I ride it, letting myself go limp, letting them use me.
“What a good fucking cunt,” Lane says, leaning forward to kiss my neck.
“The best. You take us so well, Nora.”
Lane grunts in response, pumping into me faster.
The fire roars, the tree lights flicker, and the house feels alive, pulsing with every movement.
I am close again, yet another orgasm building impossibly fast, and I scream—wordless, animalistic.
“You ready to paint her face, Lane? Claim this little slut with me?”
“She’ll look so pretty glazed with our cum.”
I feel the men shift, start to prepare. They both grunt, the sound almost a harmony, and I feel them swell, twitch, then pull out at the last moment.
Larkin’s hand finds my jaw, tilts my face up, and both men shoot their loads across my mouth, my cheeks, hot and slick, dripping down to my chin.
I take it, smiling in ecstasy, letting their cum mark me, letting them see how much I want it.
Afterward, the three of us collapse onto the chaise, spent and shaking, tangled together in a heap. The house is silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the faint tick of the grandfatherclock in the hall.
Larkin wipes the mess from my face with the sleeve of his shirt, then kisses me, slow and deep.
Lane spoons me from behind, arm heavy across my waist, breath warm against my neck, leaving the softest kisses on every inch of skin he can reach.
I lie there, caught between them, and feel the house settle around us, the old hunger sated.
A love-drunk part of me thinks maybe the curse is not so bad. Maybe, if this is how it ends, I could live with it forever.
The world outside the house is dark, cold. Inside, we are together, held fast by the chains of our own making.
I close my eyes and sleep, knowing that when I wake, they will still be here.
And so will I.
19
Christmas Eve
The air has an edge, charged and wild, as if every surface is wound tight, ready to spring or to shatter. I feel it in the slow, ceremonial clang of the radiator, in the dry snap of the kindling as Lane tends to the hearth, in the way even the portrait eyes seem turned slightly askew, as if waiting for a verdict.
The dining room is unrecognizable. Whitby has decided that we will have a Christmas Eve dinner to celebrate the holiday, and one last night together, before I am made to decide what to do tomorrow. Before I’m forced to decide everyone’s fate.
She spent the afternoon engineering it into a stage—table gleaming with so much silver and crystal that it aches to look at, every plate set with ruthless geometry, every glass knifing a double shadow into the linen.
