11. Fashion Anxiety #2
I let my head fall back onto Mateo's shoulder.
He caught it, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling gently to expose the line of my throat.
I watched it happen in the mirror. I watched my own throat arch, watched Lucien lean in, his eyes dark, and press an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point fluttering wildly under my jaw.
I gasped, the sound loud in the small room. Lucien’s mouth was hot, his tongue tracing the vein, tasting the salt and the fear and the desperate need that was sweating out of me.
“Beautiful,” Lucien breathed against my skin.
Mateo growled. His hand slid from my hair, down my neck, over my shoulder, and wrapped around my bicep. He squeezed, a firm, bruising pressure that grounded me perfectly.
Lucien’s hands slid down my chest, his thumbs catching my nipples, rolling them sharply between his fingers.
My hips jerked forward involuntarily, brushing against the front of his trousers.
He was hard. I could feel the heavy ridge of him through the dark wool, and the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
I was aching, straining against the tight black cotton of my boxer briefs, the pre-cum already dampening the fabric.
“Not yet,” Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave. He caught my hips, holding me still, preventing me from chasing the friction. “We are not rushing this, Mr. Venn. You wanted to stop thinking. I intend to make sure there isn't a single coherent thought left in that pretty head of yours.”
He stepped back half a pace, maintaining his grip on my hips. He looked at me in the mirror, his gaze tracking down my chest, over the flat plane of my stomach, to the heavy, obvious bulge in my underwear.
“Mateo,” Lucien said, his tone shifting back to the professional, slightly bored register, though his eyes were anything but. “The fit on these is terrible. They're restricting him.”
“They are,” Mateo agreed. His hand slid around to my front, his knuckles dragging over the damp cotton over my cock. I bit back a whine. “Too tight.”
“We should adjust them.”
“Slowly,” Mateo said.
“Always.”
Lucien didn't drop to his knees. Instead, his hands slid up from my hips to my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles at the base of my neck. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. The smell of him filled the tight space. He stared directly into my eyes.
I felt a push. It wasn't physical. It was a wave of pure, concentrated heat that rolled off him and crashed into my skull, a silent command wrapped in velvet that told my brain to melt, to submit, to let go of every single inhibition and just obey. It was intoxicating.
And it slid right off me.
I looked back at him, confused by the sudden pressure in the air that had vanished as quickly as it arrived.
Lucien’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The glow faded. The slow, dark smirk returned.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a secret.
“What?” I breathed.
“Nothing, Mr. Venn. Just admiring the material.” He stepped back, dropping his hands, and reached for the heavy velvet curtain. “This room is too small for what we need. Come with me.”
He pushed the curtain aside. The cool air of the main measuring room hit my flushed skin, but Lucien didn't stop there.
He walked past the raised platform, past the bolts of wool and silk, to the far wall where a set of heavy, ebonized double doors stood flush against the paneling.
He pushed them open, revealing a room that made the chapel-sized tailoring space look modest.
It was a perfect square. And every single wall, from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, was a seamless mirror.
There were no windows. The light came from recessed bulbs in the ceiling, casting a warm, golden, omnidirectional glow that meant there were no shadows.
It was a room designed for vanity.
“In,” Mateo said quietly from behind me. His hand was on the small of my back, a heavy, solid weight pushing me forward.
I walked to the center of the room. The floor was dark, polished hardwood, cool against my bare feet. Everywhere I looked, I saw us.
“Much better,” Lucien said. He stopped in front of me. “You can't hide in here, Nico. You can't turn your head and pretend it isn't happening. You have to watch.”
“I'm watching,” I said, my voice rough.
“Good.”
He stepped into my space again. He didn't ask this time.
His hands went to the waistband of my boxer briefs, but he didn't pull them down.
He just hooked his thumbs under the elastic and traced the line of my hips, the calluses on his fingers dragging over my hip bones.
The sheer, fluid grace of his movements was hypnotic.
Behind me, Mateo stepped flush against my back.
I gasped, my spine arching involuntarily.
Mateo was a big man, and the heat coming off him was unnatural.
It felt like standing in front of an open furnace.
He ducked his head, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
He didn't kiss me. He just inhaled, a long, deep, dragging breath that sounded almost like a growl.
His nose dragged along my collarbone, his stubble scraping my skin, and he breathed in again, pulling my scent deep into his lungs like he was trying to memorize the chemical composition of my panic and my lust.
“Fuck,” I choked out, my hands coming up to grip my own opposite shoulders, trying to hold myself together.
“He smells incredible,” Mateo rumbled, his voice vibrating directly into my collarbone.
“I know,” Lucien said softly.
Lucien’s hands moved from my hips to my chest. He traced the lines of my muscles, while Mateo remained a heavy, grounding anchor at my back.
Mateo shifted his stance. He spread his legs slightly, and then he pulled his hips forward, pressing the hard ridge of his erection directly into the cleft of my ass.
I let out a loud, broken moan, my head dropping back onto his shoulder. “Ahhh... fuck.”
The rough wool of his suit trousers bit into the bare skin of my upper thighs and the thin cotton of my underwear.
But there was no mistaking the size or the absolute, rigid hardness of what was pressing against me.
It sat perfectly in the groove between my cheeks, a thick, insistent pressure that promised ruin.
“You feel that, boss?” Mateo whispered harshly in my ear, his hips grinding forward just a fraction of an inch.
“Yes,” I whined, my hips automatically trying to push back against him, chasing the pressure.
“Don't move,” Lucien commanded.
I froze. Lucien’s hands slid down my stomach, his fingers splaying wide over my lower abdomen, just above the waistband of my underwear. He pressed inward, a firm, flat pressure that pushed my hips back, grinding me harder against Mateo’s cock.
My breath hitched. My own cock was aching, straining against the tight cotton, weeping pre-cum that I could feel cooling against my skin.
“Look at us,” Lucien murmured. He reached up with one hand and gripped my chin, forcing my head up, forcing me to look straight ahead into the glass.
I saw a man coming apart. I saw myself pinned between two men, while I was stripped bare, vulnerable, shaking.
I saw Mateo’s dark hand wrap around my waist, his thick fingers splaying over my ribs, holding me tight against his grinding hips.
I saw Lucien’s pale hand on my stomach, his thumb stroking the line of hair that disappeared beneath my waistband.
“You want to be wanted,” Lucien said, his voice a smooth, heavy purr that seemed to vibrate in the air around us. He stepped closer, until his chest was brushing mine then he pressed his hips forward.
“We want you, Nico,” Lucien whispered, his lips brushing mine. He didn't kiss me, just let the words fall against my mouth. “We want to take you apart and see how you fit back together.”
“Please,” I begged, my hands flying out to grip Lucien’s waist, my fingers digging into the crisp cotton of his shirt. “Please, take it off. Take it all off.”
“Impatient,” Lucien chided, though his eyes were dark with his own hunger. He leaned his forehead against mine.
They began to move together. It wasn't a coordinated rhythm, but a devastating push and pull.
When Mateo ground his hips forward, Lucien would pull back a fraction, his hands smoothing up my chest. And when Mateo eased off, Lucien would press in, his hips rolling against my aching, trapped cock, his thigh sliding between mine to part my legs further.
“You're so desperate, Nico,” Lucien whispered, his hand sliding down, slipping under the waistband of my underwear, his bare fingers finally making contact with the slick, overheated skin of my stomach. “So ready to just let us take over.”
He pushed his fingers lower, slipping beneath the elastic, his knuckles brushing the coarse hair at the base of my cock. I sobbed, a wet, broken sound, my hips jerking forward to chase his hand.
Lucien pulled his hand from my waistband, the loss of that heavy, teasing pressure making me whine in the back of my throat.
But he didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, his long fingers tangling in the hair at the back of Mateo’s head, just above where Mateo’s face was still buried in the crook of my neck.
Mateo lifted his head, his brown eyes blown wide, the gold ring around his pupils flashing in the bright, omnidirectional light. He looked at Lucien over my shoulder.
Lucien leaned in. He bypassed my mouth entirely, closing the distance between him and Mateo. Their mouths crashed together right next to my ear.
The sound of it was obscene. I watched them in the mirror, mesmerized. Lucien’s pale hand gripping the back of Mateo’s dark hair, Mateo’s thick arm wrapping around my waist to hold me steady while he ravaged the tailor’s mouth.
I felt the shudder rip through Mateo’s chest, vibrating against my back. Lucien pulled away with a gasp, a string of saliva connecting their lips for a split second before it snapped.