Sundown, Holiday, Beacon by Noone K.L

Sundown, Holiday, Beacon by Noone K.L

Author:Noone K.L. [Noone K.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter 3

They tumbled into the bedroom—their bedroom—together, trading kisses and caresses and laughter. Ryan stepped on John’s foot once. John, carrying Holly, got closer to him and backed him up against the wall until they ran out of space, bodies meeting, aroused and expectant.

Ryan said, “You might be bigger, but I’m more flexible,” and wrapped a leg around John’s. Holly’s rainclouds played melodies across stone and glass and oceans, surrounding their home, drenching the world in silvery song.

Their bedroom held laundry baskets and thick island-weather blankets. It kept safe several of Holly’s current books on infamous historical duels and scandals, plus John’s favorite old leather belt, coiled innocuously by the bedside. It protected Robbie’s dog tags, in a closed box—not hidden, not dismissed, but put away and quietly approving—on one of the carved-out rock shelves.

The shelf space also contained a ridiculous plush bear that John had bought when Ryan had first moved in. The bear wore a cape and a mask, and clutched a tiny sign in both paws that said I’m super-glad you’re here! John had put him on top of one of the last moving-boxes for Ryan to find; Ryan had said, “That is literally the world’s most super-terrible pun,” because his new partner was clearly a tremendously muscular sentimental dork and also because his chest felt weirdly flutteringly pleased at the thought.

That shelf held one more item: a miniature sketch of him and John, caught laughing at something in the kitchen, himself with miniscule lightning-bolts at the fingertips of one gesturing hand, John’s eyes captured in the act of adoring him. That piece told a story in lyrical black ink, hand-drawn. Holly was a more than decent artist—those relentless lessons in aristocratic perfection at work—and had offered it to them shyly on the three-month anniversary of them all being a them. He’d included himself in the scene, unobtrusive and pixie-sized and sitting on the lower corner of the countertop where ink-lines blurred into ragged edges. Tiny Holly was hugging one knee to his chest, letting one long leg dangle, and smiling at them both.

They hadn’t known he could draw. He didn’t, not often. But sometimes.

Their bed took up most of the room. Heroic capacity. Nice and sturdy. Plush and firm. Opulent thread counts. Thick carved headboard, dark wood over reinforced heaviness.

John tossed Holly into bed—Holly landed amid blanket-hills and a fortress of pillows, which merrily scattered themselves, and lay there smiling—and pulled off his own shirt and threw it vaguely at the laundry basket and got hands into the waist of Ryan’s pajama pants. “You have too many clothes on. So do I.”

“You can help with that—”

John did. With alacrity. Holly, having pushed himself up on both elbows, gazed at them. Licked lips, a half-unconscious swipe of tongue over pink skin.

“Mmm,” John said, on both knees, nuzzling at the crease of Ryan’s hip, lips brushing his cock. “You taste good. All clean and warm.”

“I probably taste like your soap.” He ran a hand through John’s hair, felt his own heart ache with love: clear as firelight, transparent as water.



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