Chapter 1: Whiskey and Pine
The air in the clearing was cool and carried the sharp, clean scent of pine and damp earth. Darla pulled her knitted sweater tighter around her shoulders, the wool soft against her skin. Across the fire, Pete stretched, the hem of his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut stomach. The muscles in his thighs shifted as he settled back against his log, the worn denim of his jeans straining.
She looked away, into the flames.
Tom’s hand, warm and familiar, found her knee. His thumb began a slow, absent circle. “Cold?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble next to her ear.
“A little.” It wasn’t the mountain air. It was a different kind of chill, a nervous flutter deep in her belly that had nothing to do with the temperature.
The fire cracked, sending a swirl of embers up towards the black velvet sky peppered with stars. The lake behind them was a sheet of dark glass, perfectly still.
“Pete brought the good stuff,” Tom said, nodding toward the bottle of bourbon at his friend’s feet. “You should try a sip. Warm you up.”
Pete glanced over, his green eyes catching the firelight. He smiled, a slow, easy thing that carved a faint line by his mouth. “It’s smooth. Promise.”
She accepted the bottle when Tom passed it to her. The glass was cool. She took a small swallow, the liquor burning a gentle path down her throat, pooling heat in her chest. She handed it back to Tom, their fingers brushing.
Tom took a long pull, then passed it to Pete. Their hands met in the space above the fire, a simple, practiced transfer between men who had shared everything since they were boys. Darla watched the liquid glint amber in the bottle as it moved.
Silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of the pop of sap in the wood, the distant cry of a loon on the lake, the weight of something unspoken hanging between the three of them. Darla’s gaze drifted again, against her will, to Pete. He was leaning back, one arm slung over his bent knee. The fire painted his profile in gold and shadow. He was looking at the stars, but she was looking at the undeniable, thick line of him in his jeans.
Her face flushed. She felt caught, though neither man was watching her.
Tom’s hand slid higher on her thigh, his palm warm through her leggings. His breath was soft against her temple when he spoke, his words so quiet they were almost lost in the crackle of the fire.
“You can look, baby.”
Her heart stuttered. She froze.
“He doesn’t mind,” Tom added, his thumb pressing into the soft muscle of her inner thigh.
A jolt, sharp and electric, went through her. She turned her head, searching Tom’s face. His expression was calm, steady. There was no joke in his kind eyes, only a profound, unsettling certainty. He gave her leg a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
She slowly, so slowly, let her eyes return to Pete. He had heard. He was now looking back at her, his gaze steady and open. He didn’t smile, didn’t leer. He just… allowed it. He let her look her fill, the fire dancing in the depths of his green eyes.
The permission was more intoxicating than the bourbon. A slow, daring heat began to uncoil from her core, spreading outwards, melting the nervous chill. The sounds of the night faded—the loon, the trees, the fire. There was only the rapid thrum of her own pulse in her ears and the heavy, visible truth of Pete’s body across from her.
“See?” Tom whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Nothing to be scared of.”
Pete shifted slightly, the movement drawing her eye like a magnet. He leaned forward to put another log on the fire, the movement emphasizing the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the shift of denim across his lap. When he sat back, he held her gaze. A challenge. An invitation.
“It’s okay, Darla,” Pete said, his voice a rough scrape that matched the texture of the night. “Really.”
Hearing her name in his mouth, here, now, did something to her. It made it real. This wasn’t a passing, shameful glance. It was acknowledged. It was shared.
Tom’s hand was a steady brand on her leg, his touch both an anchor and a catalyst. She felt a dampness between her legs, a shocking, hungry ache that made her press her thighs together. The pure physical want was so strong it felt like a separate entity living inside her.
“I…” she started, but had no words. What was there to say?
“You don’t have to say anything,” Tom said. He pressed a kiss to her temple, a gesture of pure, sweet ownership. Then he looked across the fire at Pete, and something passed between them—a look, a understanding older than she was. Tom nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Pete stood up. The suddenness of the movement made Darla jump. He was taller, broader up close, blocking out a section of the starry sky. He didn’t approach her. He just looked down at her, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.
“Lake’s calm as anything,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Water’s probably still warm from the afternoon.”
He held a hand out. Not to her. To Tom.
Tom took it, a firm, strong grip, and let Pete pull him to his feet. They stood there for a second, two solid forms against the firelight, connected. Then Tom turned and offered his hand to Darla.
Her own hand trembled as she placed it in his. He pulled her up, her legs wobbly. She stood between them, the heat of the fire on one side, the cool mountain night on the other, and the radiating warmth of the two men surrounding her.
Tom kept her hand in his. Pete, after a moment’s hesitation, reached out and brushed a strand of her honey-brown hair from her cheek, his calloused fingers barely grazing her skin. The touch was fleeting, but it burned.
“Come on,” Pete said, turning toward the path that led down to the lake’s edge.
Tom tugged her gently, and she followed, her heart hammering against her ribs. They left the circle of firelight, stepping into the deeper darkness under the trees. The path was soft with needles, their footsteps silent. Ahead, Pete’s silhouette moved with a sure, easy grace.
She could hear the lake now, a gentle lap against the shore. The water came into view, a vast expanse of darkness mirroring the stars, broken only by the faint, wavering line of the opposite shore.
Pete stopped at the water’s edge and turned to face them. Tom released her hand, sliding his arm around her waist instead, pulling her back against the solid wall of his chest. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine.
Pete looked at her, then at Tom over her head. “Still okay?”
Tom’s chin rested on top of her head. His voice was a vibration she felt through her whole body. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
Pete’s eyes found hers in the dim light. He held her gaze as his hands went to the buckle of his belt. The click of the metal release was obscenely loud in the quiet.
Darla stopped breathing.