Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I slide my tongue over Vincent’s opening, and he pulls at my hair.
“I’m gonna come,” he tells me. I keep sucking him and run my hands over his balls. Nathan grips my hips harder, more hurried as he penetrates me deeper in demanding strokes. My orgasm washes over me unexpectedly, and I reach back to touch Nathan anywhere my hands can reach. Vincent’s release follows, and he douses my tits in sweet, hot cum. His cum practically blasts from his cock, coating my chest and stomach, leaving a deliciously sticky mess behind.
“That’s it, cover her up,” Nathan commands, on a deliciously filthy roll as he comes inside of me. I topple over so my head is against the mattress, and he pulls out of me just in time to spray even more cum, now all over my ass.
“Oh god…oh…” I’m moaning barely intelligible sounds at the downright animalistic and raw way that we’re fucking.
We each lay in our own bout of ecstasy, catching our breaths.
“Oh my god…” Nathan reaches for a cigarette, and I lie on my side, sticky. Vincent reaches for his wine, taking a sip. We all share the bed, looking up at the ceiling.
Vincent is the first to fall asleep, leaving Nathan and I awake in the dark.
Nathan is very quiet as he gets out of bed and leads me out to the balcony. The sky is a very romantic array of stars. The moon is bright, but it’s not a full moon; it’s not the kind you might see in a scary movie about werewolves. It’s merely a hyphen in the night sky.
“Sometimes I think it’s easy to be Vincent. Sometimes I wish I was him—like his life is a clean slate or something. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Or maybe that’s not good, maybe he hasn’t experienced life yet in the way I have.”
I look at Nathan, keeping my eyes on his stormy brown eyes.
“Which do you prefer?” he simply asks me.
“I like both, obviously,” I say.
Nathan doesn’t seem satisfied with this response and looks off at the garden.
“What if I planted something? And you tried to guess what it was I planted, you know, once it grows.”
I really like this idea. It’s mysterious and romantic, like this night. Like every night with Vincent and Nathan. And it gets my mind wondering—what will Nathan plant? What kind of plant would he like to see grow in a garden of honeysuckle, roses, gloriosas, hibiscus, frangipani, lobster-claws, sacred lotus, eucharis grandiflora, alpinia purpurata, gardenias, cattleya orchids, larkspur, and so forth. A cactus?
I decide to just ask.
“What is your favorite kind of flower?”
“No,” he just says.
“The no flower? Haven’t heard of it,” I joke.
He shakes his head, barely grins, and drags his smoke along the edge of the balcony so it leaves a thick black line I know will annoy Vincent and the maid.
“You’ve probably never seen it either, they refuse to grow,” Nathan says, and we both laugh. These are the kinds of conversations we have, and we laugh in the middle of the night and it’s the best thing.
“I like watching you sleep,” I say, “When you’re not having nightmares.”
“I kind of wish I could see myself sleep. I’m not making a weird face?”
“No, you look so peaceful, so do you have good dreams, too?” I ask.
“Every time I look at your face,” Nathan winks. He’s pouring it on a bit thick, but I don’t mind.
“I see.”
Nathan smiles and looks in the room where Vincent now lay awake. .
“Can you tell the difference between our scents?” Nathan asks. This is quite the question. I’m not expecting it. Vincent walks out onto the balcony right as I’m getting ready to answer it. Although I have no idea what the answer is.
“I mean…some days, when you shower, because you both use different types of soap.”
“I shower every day,” Nathan claims. Vincent laughs at this and points at Nathan with his cigarette.
“See?” Vincent says. “You are a liar.” The three of us share a laugh and Vincent looks out at the garden. “I shower every day,” he mocks Nathan in a mutter and starts on yet another glass of wine.
“Whiskey,” I suddenly say, and Nathan actually starts to pour me some.
“No, no,”—I hold a hand up, politely protesting—“I mean you smell of whiskey,” I point at Nathan. “You taste of it. And Vincent tastes like wine. And, Vincent, you use some kind of peppermint smelling soap and Nathan uses one that smells like the beach in the morning.”
Nathan has grown quiet as if he’s no longer interested in the response I’m giving to his own inquiry.
What is he thinking right now? Is he thinking about his nightmares? Is he wishing they would stop? Is he afraid to go to sleep tonight? Does he want me to hold him? Maybe Vincent is right, maybe he is obsessing over something dark from his childhood that he should just let go. Things can’t grow when you do this.