Chapter 5 Familiar Skin #3
Dec saw me looking. His eyes found mine in the mirror and held them, and the last wall between us came down.
Naked, unguarded, nothing left to hide behind.
His jaw was slack, his eyes dark, and with every stroke his expression said what his mouth wouldn't: I need this.
I need you. I've been starving for two weeks and I'm not stopping until we're both destroyed.
His pace picked up. The long, teasing strokes shortened into a steady, relentless pounding that drove the air out of my lungs and filled it with sounds I wasn't even trying to control anymore—moans, gasps, his name repeated like a prayer I didn't remember learning.
The bed rocked beneath us. His hands gripped my hips and pulled me back into every thrust, the impact of his body against mine filling the room with a rhythm that was absolutely, definitively not quiet.
I was touching myself—had been since he'd entered me, my right hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, the dual sensation of him inside me and my hand on myself building into something massive and inevitable. The pressure climbed, wave after wave, and somewhere in the middle of it—somewhere between one thrust and the next, with Dec’s cock hitting the spot that made my vision white out and his hands bruising my hips and the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room—my mind produced an image.
Nolan. On the bed. Up on his knees in front of me, those analytical eyes gone dark with want, his cock at my lips, one hand in my hair, the glasses slightly askew.
Nolan in front of me. Dec behind me. Both of them.
Nolan's hips rocking forward, sliding himself in and out of my mouth with that maddening precision he brought to everything, slow and controlled and completely wrecked, while Dec pounded me from behind.
The fantasy was so vivid and so sudden that my whole body seized.
I let go of myself. Both hands on the bed.
The orgasm was already there, already rolling through me like a wave I couldn't stop, and I wasn't touching myself anymore—didn't need to, couldn't even, my body was doing this on its own, the combination of Dec inside me and the image of Nolan in my head converging into a climax that ripped through my gut and up my spine and out of me in a hot, pulsing rush that hit the sheets in long, shaking spurts.
"Dec—I'm cumming, fuck, I'm—"
Dec looked down. Saw my hands on the bed.
Both of them. Felt me clenching around him, my whole body shaking, and understood what was happening—that I was coming untouched, that nothing but his dick inside me had brought me there—and the sound he made, raw, guttural, the Navy facade shattering into rubble, was the most honest sound I'd heard from him in years.
He buried himself to the base. His hips locked against my ass and his whole body shuddered, and I felt him come inside me—the heat of it, the pulse, the way his grip on my hips went from bruising to crushing as he emptied himself in long, deep strokes that pushed me forward on the bed with each one.
Three more thrusts, hard and slow and devastating, wringing out every last second of it, and then his weight collapsed onto my back.
I went flat. Chest on the mattress, his body covering mine, the full weight of him pressing me into the wet spot I'd just created, and I didn't care.
His dick was still hard inside me, still buried to the hilt, and I could feel his heartbeat against my back—racing, uncontrolled, nothing like the steady sixty-beats-per-minute metronome that Nolan had measured on the ride from the truck stop.
His mouth found my shoulder. Pressed a kiss into the muscle. His breath was ragged, hot against my skin.
"Fucking hell, Sean."
I laughed. Breathless, wrecked, the laugh of a man who'd just had his brains rearranged and was still trying to locate the pieces. "Worth the wait?"
"You came without—" He stopped. His voice was rough, disbelieving. "You weren't touching yourself."
"I know." The grin was back. Pressed into the pillow, invisible, but audible in my voice. "Guess you're just that good."
His forehead dropped against the back of my neck. I felt his almost-smile against my skin.
We lay there. His weight on my back. His breath slowing.
His cock softening inside me by degrees, the two of us tangled together on a wrecked bed in a desert cabin, and for thirty seconds the world was exactly the right size and shape and contained exactly the right number of people and everything was—
A sound. Outside the bedroom.
Movement. Footsteps. Not coming toward us—moving away. Fast, but trying not to be, the cadence of someone retreating in a hurry and attempting to do it quietly and failing because a hardwood floor in a cabin this old didn't care about your dignity.
Dec went rigid against my back. His head came up.
I turned my head toward the door.
The door. Which was open. Not wide—two inches, maybe three—but enough.
The latch hadn't caught when Dec had swung it shut, and the door had settled against the frame without clicking home, and the gap between door and frame was a narrow rectangle of hallway light that might as well have been a movie screen.
The footsteps reached the far end of the hall. Nolan's bedroom door opened and closed. Not quite a slam. Careful. Deliberate. The controlled sound of a man trying very hard to pretend he hadn't just been standing in a hallway looking at something he couldn't unsee.
Dec’s eyes met mine.
"The door," I said. Redundant. Obvious. But the word needed to exist in the air between us.
"I know."
Silence. His body still pressed against mine, still inside me, the intimacy of the position suddenly electric in a way it hadn't been thirty seconds ago.
Not shame. Not regret. A new voltage. The awareness that we hadn't been alone.
That the thin walls we'd been so careful about for two weeks had been rendered irrelevant by a door that hadn't latched and a man who'd left the gym earlier than expected.
"How much did he see?" I whispered.
"Enough." Dec’s voice was flat. Controlled. But I knew him. I knew every frequency of that voice, and underneath the control: heat. Not embarrassment. Not anger. Heat.
My pulse kicked. Because the heat in his voice matched the heat in my chest, and the heat in my chest wasn't just the residual glow of the orgasm.
It was the image that had triggered it—Nolan in front of me, Nolan watching, Nolan seeing—and the realization that the thought of him knowing what we sounded like, what we looked like, what we did to each other, didn't fill me with dread.
It filled me with want.
Dec pulled out of me slowly, carefully, and rolled onto his back beside me. We stared at the ceiling. The fan turned. The desert hummed its single note outside the windows.
"He knows," I said.
"He knows."
The silence stretched. Two men in a wrecked bed, the evidence of what they'd done cooling between them, the evidence of what they hadn't said hanging in the air like smoke.
I turned my head and looked at Dec’s profile. The hard jaw. The dark eyes fixed on the ceiling. The flush still visible across his chest.
"Are you worried?" I asked.
He took his time. Dec always took his time.
"No," he said. And said nothing else.
I looked back at the ceiling. My heart was doing something complicated.
My body was doing something simple: wanting.
Still wanting, even now, even wrecked and spent and lying in the aftermath.
The want had two directions now, and both of them lived under the same roof, and the thought of that was either the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to me or the most inevitable.
Down the hall, behind a closed door, Nolan Mercer was alone with whatever he'd seen.
I closed my eyes and thought about his footsteps. The haste. The failure to be quiet. The sound of a man who'd seen something that had shaken him enough to forget how to be careful.