He lunged over to grab the closest lube from the bedside drawer. Strawberry-flavored, this one. It made him want to laugh: helplessly, foolishly, stupidly in love with Holly’s indulgences, with John’s considerate shopping purchases.
He worked fingers, slippery with lube, back between spread thighs; he slid them into the curves of that luscious backside, found the beckoning furl of muscle, made that slippery too. He did not want to hurt Holly in ways unintended; they’d never, ever do that.
Of course they had, indirectly, tonight. His heart lurched at this comprehension, trying to twist itself into a knot. They hadn’t been the ones slicing blades into fragile skin or self-esteem, no. But they’d let Holiday go in and play spy. Knowing what could happen, knowing what might happen. And he’d come out hurt.
He made himself breathe.