Chapter 15

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.”