Rainsquall: A Historical, Low Fantasy Gay MMM Romance by Penny Moss

Author:Penny Moss [Moss, Penny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penny Moss
Published: 2025-02-21T00:00:00+00:00

24.

Soft pops and cracks of the hearth's fire filled a silence that perched somewhere between tense and pleasant.

Mild.

Peppermint vapours wafted across the length of Folke’s face. His hands, no longer shaking, wrapped around the glazed mug, forefinger rubbing at the nick. Once in a while, it would catch his skin. An empty threat, too blunt to slit in full.

Darach had a tendency to slurp his tea. Not loudly, only a whisper, but it was there every time he took a sip. Finlay sighed, softly, after each gulp. They both preferred regular tea. Darach with sugar, two spoons. Finlay, a dash of milk, no sugar.

Rustling drew Folke away from observing both men on either side of him. Something tickled the back of his hand. He ran his marginally abused fingertip across pliant notches. A paper bag, the scent of ginger strong.

“Dip your hand in,” Finlay suggested.

Paper and crumbs dusted Folke’s knuckles, his fingers collecting a biscuit. Round, scalloped. Although he freed it of its susurrous prison, he didn’t eat it.

“I should be the one providing you with these things,” Folke murmured, guiltily. He definitely couldn’t accept their rent money.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Finlay’s tea-warmed lips closed around his jaw. A hungry nip followed the kiss, stirring interest in Folke, already. He buried his nose into the mug, still clasping the biscuit between his fingers. He couldn’t very well be the one to take the first bite, let alone be the only one to have a biscuit.

Darach shifted on his left. Fingers brushing over his nape elicited a shiver—multiple shivers, when he continued to caress.

“We’re keen to indulge ye, sweet Folke.”

Why?

Folke needed to ask, even though they had already told him.

His looks.

Still entirely meaningless to Folke, but it seemed important to them.

And caring deeply.

Darach had seen something that didn’t exist. What would happen once he found out?

A tap to his temple. “If you’re going to disappear inside your head, at least narrate what’s going on in there.”

Folke tilted into Finlay’s prod—and nearly succeeded in spilling his tea, a veil-thin cascade sloshing over his fingers.

“Steady.” Finlay’s low chuckle contrasted Folke’s embarrassed huff.

Feeling around for the low table, he set his mug and biscuit down. He startled, swiftly captured by an embrace. Pulled back to rest against Darach’s chest. His legs, now on the settee, pushed apart to accommodate Finlay, robbing Folke of his breath upon their lips locking.

Folke settled one hand on the side of Finlay’s face, the other he raised behind him, clasping Darach's neck. He didn’t know if this was their attempt to make things work, but this he liked. Especially when Finlay pulled away, and Darach nudged him to twist his head, so that he too could catch Folke in a languid kiss.

“We’ll try half days,” Finlay said, a touch breathless.

Darach hummed against Folke’s mouth. Breaking away to murmur, “An’ evenings we’ll share.”

What else was there to say but, “Alright.”

“And. . .” Finlay stole another kiss. “We’re not going to come inside you any longer, are we, Darach?”

The fire must have jumped the hearth and onto Folke, his face ignited.

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