by Amy Lane
Bartholomew was sitting at the table, writing on blank pieces of printer paper, chewing his lip. He looked up as Lachlan walked over, smiling distractedly, but his gaze sharpened as Lachlan put the larger dark green bag and the smaller burgundy bag in front of him on the table.
“Can I see?” he said, taking the green bag first. “Oooh… pretty.” He ran his finger along the satiny texture just as Lachlan had. “You didn’t use a dowel?” Lachlan had left the irregular edges and bark intact on the pine branch—each amulet was singular and cut specifically across the grain.
“Pine bough—I hope that’s okay.”
Bartholomew smiled sweetly. “Pine is very good luck,” he said.
“What about cedar?” Lachlan upended the other bag and tried not to be nervous.
Bartholomew took an amulet in each hand, his smile turning thoughtful. “Cedar is for protection,” he murmured. “And look at these—they’re….” His cheeks flushed. “They’re practically wedding necklaces, Lachlan. Is that what you—”
Lachlan stroked his fingers as he held them. “At least ‘going steady’ necklaces—is that okay?”
Bartholomew nodded, and to Lachlan’s surprise, met his eyes. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “I… uh….” He stood up, the two amulets in his hand. “I’d be happy to wear this amulet with you.” He frowned a little. “It’s going to be pretty powerful, though. You’ll… I mean, losing something like this, it might even cause physical pain. It will actually take sort of a ceremony to release you from this. Are you sure you don’t want a regular protection spell?”
Lachlan thought about it. It wasn’t just the demonstrations of magic and what could happen when it went wrong that made this a serious business. It was the year and a half of celibacy, just to see Bartholomew smile at him, and the way Lachlan thought he might die if they didn’t touch again soon. As witchy as Bartholomew and his friends might be, they had nothing on the full-bore magic of attraction and genuine liking that had been building in Lachlan’s chest for the last two years.
Sure, it could turn out to be a lie or a mirage, but Lachlan was the one who trusted the world. He had to show Bartholomew how to take a leap of faith.
“Sure,” he said, like it was no big deal, but then Bartholomew looked stricken, and he realized he had to actually show that he took this seriously. “Yeah, Tolly. I want to give us a try. Is that bad?”
Bartholomew shook his head, looking pleased and baffled. “Not bad. Not exactly understandable, but not bad.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re sure you didn’t eat any of my stock this morning?”
Lachlan rolled his eyes and stepped forward, closing his hand over Bartholomew’s as he held the amulets. “I’m sure. What do we do next?”
Bartholomew set the two amulets down, took the six “friend” amulets in his hand, and faced the single white candle twined to the pot with a braided rainbow of yarn.
“That’s pretty impressive, and I don’t know what any of it means,” Lachlan said, and Bartholomew’s eyes got big.
“Oh, wait!” He turned back to the paper he’d been scribbling on and grabbed one of the pages. “Yeah, need this. Okay.” He bit his lip and closed his eyes and then opened them. “Do you have a lighter for the candles?”
“Yeah, drawer to your right.”
Bartholomew snagged it with one hand and scanned his lines with the other. Then he took a deep breath and expelled it, in a classic centering ritual.
“To strengthen friendship that’s being tried, to bless the bonds that have kept us sane, I light the candle of pure intentions. As I love my friends, may they bless my name.”
And with that, he lit the candle and dropped the discs into the potion mixture, saying, “Jordan our leader, kind and true, Josh the bard and protector, Kate who plans. Dante the writer, the wanderer, the watcher, Cully the dreamer with clever hands, Alex who makes magic with numbers—these are my friends, my coven, keep them safe from ill intentions, keep them safe from accidental wrongs, let them know my love is pure and chaste, the love of a friend who wants only their safety, their happiness, their hand of friendship in return.”
Lachlan watched his Adam’s apple bob then, and he remembered Bartholomew’s story of how they had all come to be. This meant something to him—possibly everything.
Or almost everything.
“Holy goddess, merciful god, capricious other, so may it be.”
Lachlan saw it then and was surprised that it wasn’t the shape of a dunce cap. Instead a glimmering shield of light rose above the pot, and the floral chamomile smell grew stronger, and the light grew brighter and brighter until Lachlan had to close his eyes.
A flash went off behind his lids, and then the kitchen went dark again and he smelled the acrid smoke of an extinguished candle.
When he opened his eyes again, the liquid mixture had completely dissipated—even the flower petals, tea leaves, and the cotton of the witch hazel pad had disappeared. In its place, the six amulets sat, satiny and stained in six of the seven colors that had been wrapped around the pot and the candle.
Lachlan said, “Ooooh…,” and next to him Bartholomew made a pleased grunt.
“It worked?” Lachlan asked.
“I thought it would just soak in—didn’t expect the light show and the poof,” Bartholomew said, and that whimsy that touched his mouth or his eyes sometimes was clear in his voice. “Here, let’s match the cords to the amulets.”
“Which one goes to which friend?” Lachlan asked curiously, and Bartholomew shrugged.
“I mean, I could probably analyze the colors and their meanings and figure it out, but I have the feeling my friends will know better than I will.”
“Wow, that’s sort of chancy, isn’t it?”
Bartholomew gave him a quiet grin. “That’s why we’re very kind to the chaotic other. He doesn’t get a lot of play in most rituals, but my coven believes very strongly in luck.”
Luck—like Bartholomew falling for him at the very beginning and carrying that torch for two years.
“I can deal with luck,” Lachlan said, his voice thin. “What next?”
Bartholomew turned to the other pot, which smelled strongly of roses and cloves, a smell very much reminiscent of flowers and flame. “Okay,” he said, some of his earlier confidence fading. “This one’s… this one’s harder.” His swallow was audible this time. “I… uh… are you sure you want this spell?”
“Do you?” Lachlan asked, concerned.
Bartholomew’s glance was naked and wanting. “For so long. It’s like my best dream.”
Aw, damn. “How would I say no to being your best dream?” Lachlan asked, and he’d meant it to sound light and flirty, but it didn’t.
Bartholomew nodded, still a little nervous.
Lachlan put his hand in the small of his back again. “That last one was pretty neat. I mean, the light show was surprising.”
Bartholomew flashed him a grin. “First time that happened we all stopped reading in the middle of the spell, we were so surprised. The magic got pissy again, and… well, we had to repaint the kitchen. We were doing it in mine and Alex’s house, and the new paint job was all neon and DayGlo colors. It was really hard to bake in there, and, well, I was installing a better oven the next week anyway. But we had to learn to just… just take the magic in stride, you know?”
“Yeah,” Lachlan said. “I get it. It’s like with anything powerful—a belt sander, a saws-all. If you hesitate or act afraid, bad things will happen. You have to move confidently or things could get disastrous.”
“Yeah.” That seemed to help. Bartholomew took the two amulets in his hand and scanned through the spell he’d written. Then he took Lachlan’s amulet and pressed it to his lips in a gesture that was almost unconscious—and an exact mirror of the one Lachlan had made when he’d finished the two discs.
A look of peace crossed over Bartholomew’s face, and the presence under Lachlan’s hand seemed to heat, glowing, perhaps, with the magic and the lo—th
e emotion of the two of them.
Bartholomew put the discs into the potion and lit the candle, and Lachlan saw that the candle was bound to the cooking pot with four cords—two sets of red twisted with white.
“Roses for love,” Bartholomew started, and then he cleared his throat and the paper fluttered to his feet. “Love and strength, pride and timidity, healing and protection, the one to the other. This spell is for you who loved and did not know your love was returned, and for me. I loved you and you did not know. Let our hearts look forward now, and see only truth. Let our breath and bodies twine and our minds read from the same page. Roses for requited love, cloves to awaken, amaryllis to forgive. May our lives twine and grow.”
The cone of power for this spell was a rich, sensual red, with a bright white and pure iridescence, and while this grew brighter even than the friendship spell, Lachlan could not look away.
As he stared, mouth slightly parted, the incense of the potion filled his senses and the candle flared, its glow encompassing the tiny cauldron in a bubble of magic Lachlan couldn’t deny.
Somewhere, a perfect chord sounded, and Lachlan’s touch on Bartholomew’s back rang between them, until both of them moaned slightly, their skin ablaze with need.
The cone of power and the dome of protection merged, and the chord swelled, and both of them tilted their heads back and gasped, spilling a gentle sound of completion into the air, a release without sexual climax that left them both sinking to the floor in a daze.
Lachlan wasn’t sure about Bartholomew, but he was rock-hard, aching, the tip of his cock so wet it was weeping through his underwear and his jeans.
The magic scattered in a final crescendo, the light, the sound, the scent, all of it washing through them and permeating their very bones.
When it was over, all Lachlan was aware of was Bartholomew’s rapid breathing as he sat, knees folded, weight on his hands behind him.
“Damn,” Lachlan said throatily.
Bartholomew let out a tortured little moan. “Lachlan?” he said, sounding lost.
“Right here.” Lachlan leaned forward from his own crouch and put his hand on the back of Bartholomew’s neck. Bartholomew turned toward him, eyes blazing with—oh, man—pure desire.
“I want you,” Bartholomew whimpered. “I want you so bad. And I don’t know if it’s the magic or just you—I think it’s just you, but I can still smell the magic on my skin and—”
“Who cares,” Lachlan whispered back, leaning into him, pulling him into the kiss.
“I want it to be real,” Bartholomew breathed.
“Oh, baby—you of all people should see.” Lachlan could believe the light show, the buzz of electricity, the sensuality saturating the air, only because all of it was exactly what he felt when he looked at the puzzled, anxious man on his wood-paneled kitchen floor.
“Love is magic,” Bartholomew said in wonder.
Lachlan captured his mouth before he could complicate that thought. He’d said love.
And this kiss—this kiss was everything. It was Lachlan’s helpless fascination; it was Bartholomew’s obvious growing attachment. It was the slow-burning longing looks of the past two years and the breathless excitement of the past few hours.
It was hard hands sweeping skin, and sounds of excitement and arousal as Lachlan pressed Bartholomew back against the tile and began to plunder his body.
He wasn’t going to stop now, not when he had Bartholomew in his arms. That spell had finished what the events of the morning had put in motion—this consummation right here, the two of them, skin to skin.
He slid his hand under Bartholomew’s waistband, and Bartholomew grunted, thrusting up, trying to put his swollen, aching cock within Lachlan’s reach.
Lachlan took it, unable to deny himself the feel of it in his palm. There was more to what he wanted—so much more—than a quick hand job on the kitchen floor, but they both needed right now to the point of pain, and Lachlan knew that if he wanted to slow down, wanted to take his time with Bartholomew, to savor every cry and every shiver, he’d have to ease the ache of arousal now.
He stroked slow and hard and lowered his mouth to Bartholomew’s ear. “I’m gonna make you come,” he said crudely. “Just enough so you can think. So we can slow this down. Because I need you too, so bad, you have no idea. But we need room to breathe. So kiss me, and come for me, and then I’ll fuck you proper.”
Bartholomew’s shudder started almost before Lachlan could swallow his cry of orgasm. Maybe it was the crude words, or maybe it was Lachlan’s hand on his cock, but his entire body shook and his shriek of climax filled Lachlan’s chest like oxygen. His come spilled, hot and thick, over Lachlan’s fist.
Lachlan moaned a little, his own cock still hard in his jeans. He pulled away, resting his forehead on Bartholomew’s and trying to catch his breath.
“How you doin’, Tolly?”
“Wasn’t enough,” Bartholomew admitted.
Lachlan’s smile was a little dirty and a lot hungry. “Good. Head for the guest bed. Take off all your clothes.”
He stood and gave Bartholomew a hand up, then kissed him hard, enjoying his taste, his hunger, even the smell of come that was tinging the already charged incense of the spell.
“Okay,” Bartholomew whispered. “What—”
“Just go, Tolly. I’ll be right there.”
Lachlan turned toward the amulets, both of them dyed that sensual burgundy red, lying in a bed of rose petals as fresh as though they’d only now been plucked. The metal pentagrams had arced out slightly, like a protective force between joy and the world, their points lodging into the wood with what Lachlan suspected would be a lifelong bond.
He lifted them out of the flowers and took the cords—now lying neatly coiled next to the spent candle—with him as he walked to the bed. He set them on his bed stand before undressing, working hard not to look at Bartholomew’s slender and milk-pale body as he squirmed under the plain cotton sheets and colorful quilt that decked out the guest bed.
Lachlan kicked off his work boots, shucked his pants, pulled his shirts over his head without fuss or ceremony, and slid in after him.
“Come here,” he demanded simply, and Bartholomew turned those giant haunted gray eyes to his face.
“What?”
“I want to feel you,” he said. “Skin to skin. Twined. Like you said. Come here and kiss me, and let’s make some more magic real.”
Bartholomew’s mouth on his, hungry and yielding at once, was the sweetest wine he’d ever tasted. The scent of the spell mixed with the scent of Bartholomew’s skin, and together, they became a sort of heady incense, indelibly mixed and printed in Lachlan’s primal response center.
This smell would always make him want, always make him need, always make him hard.
For a moment, they simply kissed, skin to skin, Bartholomew on top of him, gloriously nude. Then Bartholomew undulated against him and his cock swelled against Lachlan’s thigh.
“Tolly,” Lachlan murmured urgently, “this is your first time?”
Bartholomew slid sideways and buried his face against Lachlan’s chest. “Yes. I’m sor—”
“No. God, don’t apologize. I’m sorry—I’m just enough of a caveman to get off on that a little. I’m the one who should be sorry, or at least throwing you out into a naked mosh pit so you know I’m the one you want to mate necklaces with.”
Bartholomew’s giggle against his neck gave him heart. “Don’t you see?” he said, meeting Lachlan’s eyes finally. “I trust you. I… I’ve only ever trusted my friends, but I trust you with my body. With… with being naked. That’s why we… mated necklaces, I guess.”
Lachlan swept Bartholomew’s hair back from his forehead, liking that it was over the collar, hating that it hid his eyes. “Then let me trust you,” Lachlan murmured. “I’m here, I’m naked, I want you—oh my God, I want you. Play with me a little, okay? No tickling—pretty please—but other than that?”
Bartholomew’s smi
le went smug, and he swept a hand from Lachlan’s shoulder to his waist. “All mine.”
“And everything south too,” Lachlan said. Bartholomew rubbed his pectoral again, gentle and firm, and Lachlan moaned breathily. “Everything.”
“Everything?” Bartholomew kept rubbing.
“There’s a nipple in there, Tolly—you could always—yes!”
Bartholomew’s lips, eager and sensual, closed over his nipple, and he suckled, laving the nipple with his tongue, teasing with the barest edge of teeth.
“Mmn… God, yes!” Lachlan tunneled his fingers through that sandy hair and reveled, his cock hard, dripping, having never gone completely down after the wash of magic. And having his nipples played with—oh, that was a turn-on—but usually with a little bit of hand work…. “Tolly,” Lachlan begged, thrusting his hips in the air. “You’ve got a free hand. Could you, you know, explore that southern place we talked abou—oh, that’s good!”
Bartholomew’s grip was perfect. Not too hard, not too soft. Lachlan’s throaty chuckle pulled Bartholomew up from his nipple, and his breath and the air and Bartholomew’s hand on his cock all threatened to drive him to the brink of screaming insanity.
“What?” Bartholomew asked, brow wrinkled in worry.
“You’ve done this before,” Lachlan teased, thrusting into his fist.
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed impishly. “I’ve practiced,” he said, lips pursed with smug joy.
“Yeah? Anything you haven’t done be—” Oh my God! “—fore?”
Bartholomew had ducked under the covers, almost before Lachlan had finished speaking. Lachlan lifted the covers, just to see his mouth in action. He wrapped his lips around Lachlan’s cock with a purpose and directness that told Lachlan he’d studied a little, at the very least to see how lips stretched around a cock without introducing teeth.
Sweetly. That’s how they stretched. Oh wow—so sweetly.
“Tolly!” Lachlan cried out. “So good!” Bartholomew wrapped his fist around the base, and a little awkwardly at first started a stroke-and-suck that pretty much left Lachlan’s mind strewn among the stars.