by Amy Lane
“Oh damn,” Lachlan moaned. “Tolly, I’m gonna come. I am. If you want me to reciproc—” Bartholomew moved his hand and sucked Lachlan down even farther. “Oh God. Guess not! I’m going to… oh please, Tolly, I want to taste you and fuck you and—ah!”
He’d had visions of seeing Bartholomew’s naked body splayed out for his plunder, but right now, he needed Bartholomew’s lips on him so badly. Just like this—their every kiss, every touch was preordained to be just like this.
Bartholomew’s other hand went wandering, cupping Lachlan’s balls, and Lachlan couldn’t take any more. “I’m coming, Tolly,” he moaned. “Oh God. Coming!”
His body suffused with white-and-crimson light—it was like it streamed from his eyes, from his toes, from his cock, straight into Bartholomew, filling them both.
Bartholomew was new—he swallowed some and lost some, and gurgled a little. When he came up for air, he was wiping his face on his shoulder to get rid of the glaze of come, but Lachlan wouldn’t let him.
“Let me kiss you,” he begged, licking Bartholomew’s lips, tasting himself and humming. “God, that was wonderful.”
Bartholomew sighed into his mouth and allowed himself to be cleaned, mussed, kissed sloppily until both of them were sheened with come and spit and swollen with kisses.
“It tasted good,” Bartholomew mumbled against his mouth. “Like my own come, but better.”
Lachlan groaned and deepened the kiss, his cock already swelling again. He was intoxicated with Bartholomew in his arms, with their smell, with the love and sex magic they’d already made together.
And the thought of Bartholomew, stroking himself to completion, tasting his own come, only drove him a little more over the edge. He started bucking against Bartholomew, feeling the hardness of Bartholomew’s cock against his thigh, and he wanted to weep. They were urgent again, so soon, and he wanted to take Bartholomew’s ass and be taken in turn. But you couldn’t do that on a dime, and Lachlan refused to just fuck him and not make it amazing, so he kept kissing, stroking Bartholomew in his fist.
“I know what I taste like,” Lachlan panted, using his tongue to take the last of his own spend from the corner of Bartholomew’s mouth. “Now let me see what you taste like.”
And it was his turn to disappear beneath the covers.
He positioned himself between Bartholomew’s legs this time, because he wanted access to everything.
“God, your sex is beautiful,” he breathed, loving the paleness of his skin, the sparseness of the blond hair on his thighs, the length and shape of his cock. He delicately took one of Bartholomew’s balls into his mouth, just to hear him gasp and see him throw his head back, chanting nonsense syllables into the air.
He let it go, hungering for all of him, but he had to ask. “What next, Tolly? Your cock?” He licked a stripe from Bartholomew’s balls to his already-dripping tip, making a show of tasting the come from before and the precome that spread now. “Mm.” He popped the head in briefly, savoring Bartholomew’s moan, and then backed off.
“Your balls?” Another lick, this one digging into the base, slightly beneath, and letting Bartholomew’s unsatisfied little grunt prod his own arousal up past nine again.
“Lower?” he teased, parting Bartholomew’s cheeks, exposing his crease, blowing softly. To his pleased surprise, Bartholomew grabbed his thighs, spreading himself shamelessly, as needy and begging as Lachlan had ever seen a boy.
Lachlan chuckled and sucked on his finger, then circled softly. “C’mon, Tolly. Need your words.”
“Gah!” Bartholomew wiggled, ass still spread. “Touch that—penetrate it. And your mouth… on my… oh God, please suck me… my cock…. Lachlan, it’s like magic…. It’s making everything tingle and—”
Lachlan grinned and decided to disobey orders just a little. He paused and gave Bartholomew’s entrance a lick, and Bartholomew’s keen of desire went straight to Lachlan’s own groin.
“Yes! No! But God, yes!”
He licked again, not hard, knowing it wasn’t enough to pitch Bartholomew over but enjoying the burble of orders, begging, and curses that came from his mouth as Lachlan rimmed him.
He got lost in his work, in Bartholomew’s pleasure, until a wail of frustration split the air.
“God, Lachlan, please, please, fuck me or blow me! I need!”
Lachlan pulled back, his own body in freefall from self-denial, his face wet with his own spit.
“Both,” he murmured, so saturated in desire it was like sex lightning could issue from his fingertips, his tongue, his cock, at any breath. He shoved up on the bed and engulfed Bartholomew’s cock, pushing until his lips met the tickly hair at Bartholomew’s groin. At the same time he slid one finger inside, stroking the loosened rim, and then another, in rhythm, until Bartholomew arched off the bed, crying out in orgasm as he blew come down Lachlan’s throat.
Lachlan swallowed, again and again and again, pumping his fingers smoothly in his tight channel until Bartholomew fell back against the bed with a whimper.
“Uncle,” he muttered feebly, and Lachlan gave a strained chuckle against his thigh. “C’mere,” Bartholomew told him, and he wiggled upward on the bed, the drag against his swollen cock an agony of stimulation. They kissed, and Bartholomew smiled, dreamy and sated and wicked.
“My turn?” he asked, and Lachlan gave him a wicked smile back, reaching into the drawer on the end table and coming back with a small dildo and some lubricant.
“Use this,” he said, loving the spark that came into Bartholomew’s eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, Tolly, we have so much to cover, you and I. Soon you’ll be fucking me over the kitchen table before I return the favor, but for right now, stretch a little, then fast and hard while you suck me.” He shuddered in anticipation. “God, please.”
It wasn’t the sensations that took over his body that he remembered after that—it was Bartholomew’s eyes. They’d gone half-lidded as he lost himself in sucking Lachlan’s cock, and then wide and alert as he checked for a reaction. He bit his lip in study as he drizzled slick on the toy, and locked onto Lachlan’s eyes as he thrust it in.
Lachlan, who usually simply lost himself in sex and allowed himself to be pleasured, was suddenly an active participant in a passive act.
Bartholomew needed his attention, needed his feedback, needed him to be present, even when Bartholomew’s mouth fulfilled its every sensual promise on Lachlan’s cock and his tentative thrusts with the dildo threatened to send Lachlan into outer space.
It was like every partner he’d had before had led him to this place, where he could stay with Bartholomew and walk him through pleasuring someone during lovemaking. It was like tilting his head back and gasping, thrusting his cock into Bartholomew’s mouth and telling him how good it was, how perfect his touch, was the reason he’d ever had sex in the first place. It was an amazing way to make love, and when Lachlan finally let go and launched, he went knowing that he’d taught Bartholomew everything he knew about catching your partner and guiding them back home.
When he came back to earth, practically dizzy from climax, Bartholomew was next to him, face buried against his neck as he caught his breath.
“So good,” Lachlan managed thickly, taking the toy from Bartholomew’s hand and setting it on the end table. He stroked Bartholomew’s sweaty back and nuzzled his temple. “You and me, together, we’re so good.”
Bartholomew raised glowing, happy, wicked eyes to Lachlan’s, that shy smile gracing his lips. “We are, right?”
“Oh God yes. Tolly, it’s not like that with someone who’s not perfect for you. I’ve never had sex like that. It puts to shame all the other times I thought I’ve been in love.”
Bartholomew sucked in a breath, and Lachlan shook his head.
“No. No panicking. No worrying. I said a scary word. So did you. It’s like your potions. It’s going to sit there, in our hearts, and steep for a minute. Infuse us. Let us get used to the idea. You an
d me will be the same when it’s done. It will be part of our blood.”
“Okay,” Bartholomew said, sounding as dreamy and out of it as Lachlan. Well, he’d been working magic for an hour. Everything Lachlan had ever read about the process said he was going to need to rest and eat. “Okay. We’ll let it steep. That’s—”
He was interrupted by a buzzing coming from his pants on the floor. He rolled over and pulled out his phone, mumbling, “Damn—Lachlan, I’ve got to wash my underwear!” before he answered. “Jordan?” He hit Speaker.
“Hey, just wanted you to know we’re not anywhere near finishing up here. You’re going to have to spend all night baking, Barty. Your stock is almost all depleted, and so is ours, and Lachlan is down by about half.”
Bartholomew blinked slowly, and Lachlan did the same shift in his brain. Oh yeah. Business. They were both small businessmen, right? This was important?
“No more cray-cray?” he asked, sounding worried, and Jordan’s negative noise on the other end reassured them both.
“Nope. I think that we finished the spell right as that group you saw got to the parking garage. A whole whack of people got busted for using the freight elevator. They had to do some fast-talking to get back on the floor.”
“But they weren’t looking for me when they came back?” Bartholomew asked, and Lachlan hid a smile. Oh, the horror! That strangers should think Bartholomew was beautiful or clever or desirable.
Lachlan could have told him that they really didn’t need enchanted baked goods to think that, but he didn’t want to stir up any more angst.
“No,” Jordan said, and Lachlan leaned over Bartholomew’s back, the better to lick his neck with little desultory swipes of the tongue. “But they did seem to be happy, if that helps. It was like they forgot about chasing you but remembered to be excited about being there. It was actually a really good day. How about you?”
“I made amulets of protection,” Bartholomew said, and his voice dropped to a mumble. “And friendship. Is Alex still there?”
“No. Once shit started to clear out, he took a rideshare home. One of the neighbors behind us—Mrs. Zabka? You remember her?”
“Yeah,” Bartholomew said, and Lachlan felt his shoulders hunch. “She’s sort of, you know, mean.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, she apparently has Alex’s number from the last time we had an, uh, incident, you know, with the cat box?”
“Poor Alex.” Bartholomew looked over his shoulder, grimacing and nodding, and Lachlan wondered who he would have to yell at to not make Bartholomew make that face.
“Yeah, well, she called because Glinda was barking. Alex got home and said he couldn’t find Dante or Cully anywhere. He had to let the dog out to crap, and let himself into their place to get her food and leash.”
“Where’d they go?” Bartholomew asked, sending Lachlan a puzzled look. “Were their cars still there?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, sounding just as puzzled. “Their cars were there, but… well, Alex spent about an hour in their house, and he’s sort of unnerved. You’ve got to let him tell you about it. I think your enchanted baked goods may be only the beginning of this thing, you know?”
Bartholomew let out a little mewl. “Oh no. When should we come over?”
“We won’t even get out of here until six, but if you wanted to replenish your stock, you should start whenever you can get back.”
Bartholomew groaned, and Lachlan could tell he was tempted to bail. It wasn’t unheard of for vendors who sold out of stock to simply leave. Once you’d earned back your overhead and supplies, everything else was pure profit. But Bartholomew had goals, and Lachlan understood that. He took one or two days out of the woodshop a week, but that was it. Working for yourself meant your boss had to be a top-notch hardass, and Lachlan had a feeling Bartholomew would be the worst of a bad lot.
“We’ll leave in an hour and a half,” Lachlan said, yawning. “That’ll give us a little down time, and then we can go back and start baking.” He nuzzled Bartholomew’s temple. “I can put some extra stock in the truck so I’m good to go tomorrow too.”
“Lachlan?” Jordan said over the phone. “Is that you?”
“Yeah. That’s me. We’ll be there when you get home tonight. Thanks for minding my store, by the way. That was really awesome of you.”
“Well, we appreciate your help this morning,” Jordan said, but it sounded like he was choosing his words carefully. “We do hope you’re being careful of Bartholomew, though. You’re all good, right, Barty?”
Bartholomew gave Lachlan an embarrassed look. “Yeah. We’re great! I mean… you know, great! Lachlan’s been… wonderful! Like, uh—”
“Great,” Jordan filled in for him, voice arid. “We get it. Barty, see you soon. Lachlan, take care of our boy.”
“’Course,” Lachlan said, not letting Jordan’s protectiveness ruffle him. He was starting to get that the cul-de-sac coven was a big deal to everybody involved. Jordan wasn’t just going to take Lachlan’s word for it that he was good enough for Tolly—he was going to need to see proof.
That was fine. Lachlan’s proof was in how his Tolly looked at him. It was in how they touched.
“Well, good. I’ll see you two at home,” Jordan said. “Bartholomew, you and me need to talk, right?”
“Yeah, Jordan. That’s fine. See you at home.”
Bartholomew hung up the phone and sagged back against the pillows. Lachlan dragged the quilts back up over both of them, and together they huddled against the slight chill in the air.
“We should get up,” Bartholomew said, but Lachlan saw the yawn escape, and he kissed Bartholomew’s cheek.
“Set your phone for an hour. We’ll leave when it goes off.”
“But what about—” He yawned. “My underwear! It’s really gross!”
Lachlan chuckled. “I’ve got a few pairs here from when I was a size down. No worries. Worst-case scenario, you can wear a pair of my sweats and change when you get back home.”
Bartholomew’s eyes tried to open completely, but they only made it to about half-mast. “That’ll look obscene!” he protested.
“Yeah, but Tolly, nobody will know but me! It’ll be sort of sexy!”
Bartholomew’s sleepy chuckle managed to sound absolutely filthy. “Stay?” he asked. “Until I’m asleep?”
“Yeah. ’Course. If you want, I can bring a change of clothes over tonight and I can sleep at your place.”
Bartholomew gave that smile—that sweet, guileless, happy look that said in spite of everything his parents had tried to teach him, he still believed in joy.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
Lachlan kissed him, accepting his openmouthed invitation to press him flat against the mattress. He managed to pull back only because Tolly’s response was getting more and more languid. “What do you think?” he asked wickedly.
“That’s a yes,” Bartholomew said sleepily, and his eyes fluttered closed. He rolled over on his side, and Lachlan cuddled up to his back for a few minutes before slipping out of bed and grabbing his clothes and walking naked to the laundry room. A quick rinse in the washer, forty-five minutes in the drier, and Tolly could go home without worry.
It was a small thing, Lachlan knew, but then, he was also starting to know Bartholomew. Something small like this could mean the world.
Looking Glass Spells
BARTHOLOMEW frowned as Lachlan rounded the last corner to the cul-de-sac. Something was wrong.
“Your street doesn’t have a name?” Lachlan asked, surprised.
“Well, technically, it’s Sebastian Circle,” Bartholomew muttered. “That’s where all our mail comes to anyway. Every time they put a street sign up, it sort of… doesn’t stay.”
“Doesn’t stay.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “Like, it’s gone the next day—even the place where the city people dug. We tried about six times to get them to replace it, and they finally gave up. I think it has something to do with Jordan.”
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“He doesn’t like the street sign?” Lachlan sounded puzzled, and well he might, but Bartholomew was preoccupied with other things. Like the fact that their once happy, shiny little cul-de-sac looked somehow… darker. Like the light from the late afternoon sun was passed through a dark purple filter, or like someone filming a horror movie had come in and repainted all their trim and twisted the Japanese plum and apple trees in the front into something forbidding that ate small children.
“He loves it,” Bartholomew said absently. “Sebastian is his father’s husband—Jordan’s stepdad—and he’s really super awesome. I got the feeling Jordan always thought plain green with white writing was a little pedestrian for Sebastian Circle. Like it should be written in neon.”
“Or ghosts trying to atone for small sins?” Lachlan asked dubiously, pulling up in the driveway next to Bartholomew’s bakery van.
“Yeah, the place usually looks… I don’t know. More Wisteria Lane, less Mockingbird Lane.”
Lachlan snorted. “So that’s reassuring, because right now, it’s giving me the heebie-jeebies. There’s…. God. There are snakes hanging from that plum tree, aren’t there?”
“Yeah,” Bartholomew said, his voice faint to his own ears. “And… so, those are crows.”
There were three on each of the cul-de-sac houses and a raven—or at least a much bigger crow—on the chimney of the little witch’s cottage. The starlings were all perched on the telephone lines and streetlamps, making no noise at all.
“So, is that, like, a murder of crows?” Lachlan said, his voice strained like he was trying to keep it light. “Or just an intimidation? An intimidation of birds, so things don’t get too dark.”
Bartholomew snorted, grateful for the joke. “A local mob of starlings, an intimidation of crows?”
“Sure.”
“So, what do we call that?” Bartholomew asked, wanting to groan.
“A convention of turkeys?” Lachlan asked, voice rising. “Or convocation—like, you know, convocation of dunces?”