Petals tumbled across his cheek, his shoulders, his hip. Roses. An illusion. A shower of them, vanishing, just enough to leave an impression. The one that fell onto Holly’s shoulder bore a hint of thorns—Ryan could see them—and that held a message: Holly dissolved into molten sugar at intensity and loved the deployment of roughness, and John normally didn’t, not as much, and the thorns were only illusory and mostly blunt.
But they were enough to be felt.
Holly gasped and arched up under him, eyes faraway and luminous. Ryan took him harder, faster, a pounding rhythm because he couldn’t help it, swept up in the tides. John ordered, voice low beside Holly’s ear, “If you can, kid, come again for us,” and kissed his cheek as Ryan bent to kiss him too, so their mouths met, tumultuous and clums
