Page 58 of The Slug Crystal

"Your feet must be killing you after all that walking this morning," Jake says, patting the couch cushion beside him after I return from a three-mile walk with Marco. "Let me help."

I hesitate, then sink into the soft leather.

Jake lifts my feet onto his lap, his hands already glistening with warmed olive oil he's prepared. Luca won’t stop talking to everyone about the benefits of using olive oil for literally anything.

According to him, it can be used for hair care, massages, as a daily lotion, and even to cure headache s

When Jake’s thumbs press into my arch and smooth the oil into my skin, I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan. Maybe Luca has been on to something.

"Too hard?" Jake asks, interrupting my thoughts, his blue eyes concerned.

"Perfect," I manage, letting my head fall back as he works the soreness from my heels, the balls of my feet, and each individual toe, somehow knowing exactly where tension hides in my body.

"You've been carrying too much," he murmurs, his strong fingers working up to my ankles. "Not just miles on these feet, but everything else too."

Jake's thumb finds a knot at the base of my heel, and a wave of pleasure-pain rushes through me. "God, you're good at that," I breathe.

His smile is warm but restrained. "Years of massaging out my own sports injuries." I wiggle my toes in appreciation, earning a low chuckle that vibrates through his hands and into my bones.

Jake’s hands move higher, kneading gently over my ankles, circling the knobs of bone with practiced ease. My whole body feels heavy, liquid, as though I might melt into the couch. His touch is steady and grounding.

I sigh, my eyes slipping shut. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Someone should,” he says quietly.

The words linger in the air, heavier than the massage, and for a moment I forget where I am, forget there are three other men in this villa, forget everything but the way his thumb slides slow circles into the tendons above my heel.

Heat pools low in my stomach, curling into desire I didn’t invite but don’t want to push away.

And then?—

“Ahh, here you are. I need your help, Emma!” I crack an eye open to see Luca leaning against the doorway, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, his grin wicked and bright.

His gaze drops to my oiled, glistening feet in Jake’s lap, and he shakes his head like he’s caught us sneaking candy before dinner.

“I didn’t mean to spoil the fun,” he says, though his tone suggests the opposite. “But I need Emma.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, his hands still resting warmly around my ankle. “She’s a little busy right now.”

Luca waves a dismissive hand, already crossing the room.

“Not too busy to help me in the kitchen. I promised fresh pane dolce for tonight, and unless you all want to eat burnt bricks, I require her assistance.” His eyes find mine, softer for a beat beneath the bravado.

“Come on, stella. I’ll even let you lick the spoon. ”

Jake gives a quiet snort, but he lets my foot slip gently from his lap, his thumb brushing once more against my arch before releasing me. The loss of his warmth sends a shiver up my leg.

I slide off the couch, smoothing my dress, trying not to feel like I’ve just been stolen by Luca in a strategic play. Seconds after I find my feet, Luca is already at my side, tugging me by the hand toward the kitchen, the smell of yeast and sugar drifting from the open doorway.

The villa’s kitchen is bright, sunlight streaming across wide stone counters dusted in flour.

Luca’s fingers brush my hip as he guides me to the counter.

The olive oil is slick on my feet, and I can’t help but laugh as I slide across the floor with one of my steps.

He uses the slip to pull me into his arms and twirl me around, dipping me low, then pulling me up against his chest. We stand there for a minute, breath intermingling, then he steps back.

Luca presses a ball of dough into my hands, his grin flashing. “Massage client turned dancer, then baker. Now, can you help me knead this? ”

Sunday, 2:36PM. Later, I find myself propped against plush pillows in the bedroom I've claimed as mine, watching Ben flip through a leather-bound book he discovered in the villa's library.

"You'll appreciate this," he says, settling beside me on the bed with casual confidence. "Nineteenth-century Italian poetry with some surprisingly spicy passages."

"I didn't know you read Italian," I say, admiring how the afternoon light catches in his dark blonde hair.

"I don't." His grin is mischievous. "But this edition has translations. Now shh, just listen."

He begins reading, his voice dropping to a register I've rarely heard from him. It’s lower and richer, with the words flowing like honey.

The poem speaks of desire, of skin like marble warmed by the sun, of fingertips tracing paths that lead to paradise.

Ben's usual performative charm transforms into something more intimate, his green eyes occasionally lifting from the page to gauge my reaction.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs between stanzas. "The way they turned longing into art."

I nod, suddenly aware of how close we're sitting, how the mattress dips between us. Ben’s nurturing comes through connection. He deals in shared words, shared smiles, and the buildup of anticipation in the space between bodies.

Marco appears, his expression both determined and slightly self-conscious. He hovers in the doorway for a beat before crossing the threshold, the soft tread of his shoes muffled against the rug.

“I recognized that poem,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “May I?”

Ben quirks a brow but shifts slightly, tugging me with him to create space on my other side.

Marco settles onto the bed with careful precision, though the mattress still dips beneath his lean frame.

Ben passes him the poetry book, and Marco’s fingers smooth over the worn pages like it’s a sacred text .

When he begins to read, his voice is steady but quieter than Ben’s, accented and lyrical, the Italian unfurling in rich, rolling syllables that curl through the room like smoke.

The same words, but alive in a different way.

It’s less poetry and more of a spell. This time it’s focused on romance instead of slugs.

I close my eyes briefly, the cadence of his words sinking into me.

Between Ben’s deep warmth still lingering in the air and Marco’s velvet recitation, I feel cocooned, suspended between two distinct energies: Ben’s charm turned genuine intimacy, and Marco’s scholarly detachment softened into quiet passion.

At one stanza, Marco glances up, his pale eyes flicking to mine, and the words catch slightly on his tongue before he presses forward.

Ben listens too, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something more thoughtful.

For a moment, the three of us breathe in unison, bound not by touch but by words, by rhythm, by a shared silence that feels heavier than any kiss.

When Marco finally closes the book, his fingers linger on the cover. Ben exhales slowly, breaking the spell with a low chuckle. “I’ll admit, it sounds better from you. I just make it smutty.”

Marco’s mouth curves, the faintest ghost of a smile. “And yet she smiled at both.”

The weight of their attention, the charged air between us, makes my pulse stumble.

Heat spreads across my skin, not just from desire but from the intimacy of it all, too close, too much, and too good.

I swallow, tugging the blanket higher around me as if it could shield me from being so wholly seen.

“I think…” My voice emerges breathy, softer than I intend. “I think I need to go check on Luca in the kitchen.”

Ben leans back against the pillows with a grin, utterly unrepentant. “Can’t trust him not to poison us? ”

Marco tilts his head, eyes sharp but gentle. “Perhaps she wants to check on the treat they were working on earlier.”

I laugh weakly, sliding off the bed before either can follow me or call me out on running away like a coward. My legs feel unsteady, and it’s not from standing too quickly.

Their eyes track me as I cross the room.

My skin prickles under the weight of their attention.

I can still hear Marco’s voice echoing in Italian, Ben’s laughter chasing it, and I wonder, not for the first time, how long I can keep floating between all of them before I drown in the waves of growing desire that I haven't quite yet figured out how to approach.

Monday 8:03AM. A crack of thunder startles me awake the next morning, rain lashing against the villa's windows in sheets of silver.

Our plans for another day by the pool evaporate with the changing weather, forcing us inside where the stone walls keep the space cool.

Almost too cool, encouraging proximity on the couches as we debate how to pass the time.

Alex's terrarium has been moved to a bookshelf, safely away from our increasingly animated gestures as Ben unearths a stack of board games from a cabinet beneath the television.

"Monopoly is relationship suicide," Luca declares, uncorking a bottle of red despite the early hour. "I've seen blood feuds start over Park Place."

"Chess?" Marco suggests, accepting a glass from Luca.

"Too cerebral for a rainy day," Ben counters, holding up a dusty box. "How about Italian Trivial Pursuit? Though fair warning, I'm terrible at trivia unless it involves obscure movies or bar facts."

Jake settles beside me on the couch, his warmth seeping through my thin sweater. "Emma's surprisingly good at trivia. Especially music and pop culture."

"Is that a challenge, Martinez?" I ask, accepting my own glass of wine from Luca, who winks as our fingers brush during the exchange.