Chapter 1
Theo
There’s only one real difference between a spit-roast and an Eiffel Tower, and it all comes down to the lips. This distinction matters more than most people think.
In a spit-roast you’ve got two separate relationships happening at once—one between the back and the middle, another between the front and the middle.
They don’t truly intersect beyond the occasional high-five, which, if everyone’s paying attention, should absolutely be happening.
Teamwork makes the dream work, after all.
An Eiffel Tower, though, is something else entirely. It’s a proper three-way, a closed triangle where the love gets shared all around, and yes, by golly, that includes some kissing.
Both setups have their charms, no question.
Both can be spectacular.
But if I’m being honest—and I always am—I only want in on either one if I’m the one in the middle. I’m an attention whore through and through, and I like men. Love them, even. That’s not news.
I’ve said it before and I’ll keep saying it: I’ve known I was gay since long before I sprouted my first pubic hair, back when Drew Meadows was forced to hold my hand on that fourth-grade field trip. He looked horrified, but I was instantly smitten.
Girls have never interested me in that way. I have zero curiosity about whatever mysterious things are happening under their clothes. None, zilch, nada. I’m perfectly content to stay in the dark on all of that. Now, their undergarments, on the other hand, are superior in every conceivable way.
Not like men. I’m convinced there’s a secret council of macho dude bros, huddled together around stale beer while they ruin men’s fashion. They deliberately set out to craft men’s underwear from the single itchiest, least flattering material known to humankind.
There’s no other explanation for the drab gray fabric that stretches out shapeless after two washes. “How can we make these less flattering, and even less gay?” someone must have asked, and they made it their mission. Baggy legs, saggy butts, and the piling.
I shudder just thinking about it.
Women are playing an entirely different game. They’ve got an entire rainbow of colors and fabrics so soft you don’t even feel them, and it’s all designed to frame and flatter the booty in ways that border on sorcery. You don’t even need much of a butt for a pair of cheekies to look amazing.
It’s fucking magic, plain and simple, and I am a hoarder of such wizardry.
My panty drawer is busting at the seams. And why shouldn’t it be? My mood shifts daily—hell, sometimes hourly. Sweet and frilly might be today’s choice, but tomorrow might be a sinful kind of day. Whatever the morning calls for passes, though, and by night, I’m ready for my favorite pair.
They’re nothing extravagant. Practical, understated, and not the kind of thing that demands a spotlight.
Supportive in all the ways that matter, soft enough to make you comfortable, and low-key sexy in a way that doesn’t shout but still makes you pause.
Definitely not scandalous, just quietly confident with their deep brown eyes and shaved head.
I’d pick them every single morning if they’d just stop being so damn stubborn.
This is an analogy, if it isn’t clear.
I’m not actually talking about undies anymore.
A door slams, yanking me out of my head. Dmitri strides into the studio with a beaming smile that seems to repaint the entire space in warmer light. He’s ridiculously tall and crowned with that bad-boy messy hair, while his chiseled jaw and full lips are straight out of some fever-dream fantasy.
He’s a visual feast, plain and simple.
If he were a pair of undies, he’d be leather and skimpy. Something full of raw sex appeal that insists it’s too manly to be called panties, though if I’m being honest, he’d probably chafe after a while.
Dmitri is nicer than should be legally permitted, and I was smitten the instant we met. He was another unfortunate casualty in my parade of crushes.
“Hey, Theo,” he says as that enormous smile stretches even wider. He extends a fist for a bump, and I tap mine against his, laughing at the absurd size difference. My knuckles meet his like a tennis ball smacking a basketball.
“Thanks, Sticks,” I tease, meeting his gaze with a grin of my own. “I’ve been waiting all day to get fisted by you.”
A loud, booming laugh erupts from him, followed by a rumbling grumble from somewhere behind. His boyfriend—sorry, fiancé—steps in right on cue, one brow arched high and aimed squarely at me like a loaded weapon.
I press both hands to my chest. “And look at you, Eric, showing up on time and everything. Holy shit, I need to write this down so we can celebrate later.”
Dmitri glances over his shoulder and catches Eric as he scowls at me. When their eyes meet, Eric’s face softens, and I swear on everything holy, his eyes sparkle like some cheesy bodice-ripper romance novel. Diamonds in his irises, Edward-Cullen’s-ass-cheeks-in-the-sun levels of shiny.
Once upon a time, I had a tiny crush on Eric too. Thick frame, wavy blond hair that curls in the humidity, and that broody sarcasm that took a lifetime to sharpen.
He’d be a jockstrap, hands down.
The two of them are so adorable together that it’s nauseating. They’re constantly touching and kissing, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, and making the rest of the world jealous with their love.
It stung a little when a self-proclaimed straight man swooped in and stole my newest crush, but watching them together erases any lingering bitterness. I’m happy for them, and I’m glad they found each other.
Still, a boy can dream.
Would I turn down the chance to slide in between the sheets with either of them?
Better yet, both of them? At the same time?
No.
There’d be candles everywhere, naturally, mood lighting to the extreme while I pose in some cute little lacy number.
Dmitri at my front, giving me the chance to stare at that V in his abs.
Eric would be behind me, because I would bet every penny in my bank account that he’s got Dmitri outclassed when it comes to girth.
He’s got that air about him that screams, ‘I’ve got a cock as thick as a soda can. ’
This scenario brings up a very important philosophical question: Would this be a spit-roast or an Eiffel Tower?
Easy.
The two of them spend eighty percent of their life kissing, so I guarantee they’d be making out over my back.
France, it is.
The perfect setting for a classic love story.
I sigh dreamily, and both of them shoot me a questioning glance. Rather than sharing my current fantasy, I change course into safer territory. “Show me that gorgeous ring again, Eric.”
That softness remains on his face as he extends his hand, curling his fingers to display the band. The surface is polished tungsten, with two small diamonds that look like shooting stars.
Disgustingly romantic.
“I don’t see a ring on your finger, Sticks,” I tease as I nod toward his crotch. “Unless you’re hiding one somewhere you can’t show me.”
Dmitri’s jaw hinges in surprise while Eric erupts into laughter. Footsteps approach from across the room, and my heart does this stupid little two-step inside my chest as I recognize their cadence.
“Are you guys done gossiping over there, or do you need a few minutes to do your nails and makeup before we get started?” Dante asks with a touch of annoyance.
I turn to him and flutter my lashes. “How is it you always know exactly what I need? I haven’t refreshed my guyliner in hours. Wanna give me a hand?”
His lips curl into that gentle, almost reluctant smile as he meets my eyes. “Something tells me I wouldn’t do it as good as you do.”
“You could hold my mirror,” I counter, tilting my head just enough to let the light catch the mischief in my expression. “Or just sit back and compliment me while I work. I take direction well when the praise is coming from the right source.”
“Maybe after practice,” he says, the small grin lingering a second longer before he reins it in. “Right now we have work to do.”
His signature half-scowl slides back into place as he lifts a brow at the others, the shift so practiced it’s almost comforting.
I fight back a smile of my own. Dante might look like he’s all rough edges and irritation to everyone else, but I know the parts of him that are so much softer than what he shows the room.
The quiet patience, the way his voice drops when it’s just us, and the rare, unguarded glances that feel like gifts.
And I hold out for that part, always.
Flirting and teasing come as naturally to me as breathing, but they’re never serious.
Never anything more than a bright, fleeting idea that usually loses its shine the moment it gets too close to reality.
The thrill of the chase, and all that jazz.
I’ve always been fine with it, because everyone else is just a placeholder—cheap knock-offs, shiny distractions with no real staying power.
At the end of the day, I come back to him. I wait for him.
Out of my dozens of crushes over the years, nothing has ever touched the depth of what I feel for Dante. He’s somber and intense, a puzzle I’ve spent years slowly fitting together, and every new piece that clicks into place only pulls me in harder. No one else has ever come close.
I was only nineteen years old and full of youthful naivety when I met Dante. The band’s former drummer, Anthony, brought me along to practice when they were still in need of a bassist. He’d already put in a good word to the others when he invited me along for what ended up being an audition.
Dante sized me up, looking more eager to chew me up and spit me out than bring me on board, but I couldn’t look away. From the first skeptical glare he threw me with those mistrustful brown eyes, my fate was sealed. I was done.