Chapter 11 Ignition #4
Nolan pulled out. The sudden emptiness made me groan, but before I could protest his hands were on my shoulders, turning me—strong, decisive, flipping me onto my back.
The force of it—this quiet man manhandling me like I weighed nothing—sent a shudder of pure want through my whole body.
I lay on my back, looking up at both of them, spread and ruined and completely, helplessly theirs.
"I want to watch him fuck you," Nolan said. His voice was low, flushed, barely controlled. His eyes were wild—the analytical distance obliterated, the man underneath fully present and burning.
They switched. Nolan moved to my head, his cock hovering over my lips, and I took him in, tasting the clean, slick salt of his precum.
Dec grabbed my legs, lifted them, spread them, his hands firm on my thighs, and entered me with the familiarity of eight years and the intensity of a man who'd been watching everything and was done waiting.
"Fuck, Dec." I broke off as he bottomed out, the upward curve hitting the spot that made my vision white. "Right there, give it to me."
He set a pace that was devastating—deep, controlled, each stroke hitting the angle with surgical precision, his dark eyes locked on the sight of Nolan's cock sliding between my lips while he fucked me.
I wrapped my hand around myself. Stroked slow. Suspended between them, every nerve lit, every synapse overloaded. My body a conduit for their pleasure and mine.
Dec's rhythm broke first. The discipline cracking, his thrusts going harder, faster, a low growl building in his chest.
"Dec—" I pulled off Nolan’s cock, gasping, my hand flying on myself. "Cum inside me. Please. I want to feel you—"
"Fuck!" Dec's voice shattered. His hips drove forward one final time and his whole body locked, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he came, pulsing deep, his hands white-knuckled on my thighs, his head thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing taut.
The sensation of him filling me—hot, thick, the spasms of his cock inside me—pushed me to the edge.
Nolan was close. I could feel it in the stutter of his hips, the trembling in his thighs, the desperate sounds leaking from his throat.
He pulled out of my mouth, set on to come on my chest. I reached up and grabbed his cock, guiding it back to my mouth.
"No," I rasped, looking up at him, hoarse and grinning. "Cum in here."
Nolan's eyes went wide. His mouth fell open.
I reached and grabbed his muscled, bubble ass and pushed him towards my face, a plea for him to fuck my mouth.
And then he was coming, his cock buried between my lips, the hot salt of him flooding my mouth in thick pulses.
I swallowed around him—the muscles of my throat working, taking everything, the taste of him filling my senses, warm and bitter and his—and the sounds he made were inhuman, a broken moan that cracked into a gasp that cracked into my name, his whole body shaking above me, while my hand
I swallowed it all. Every drop. Licked him clean with slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue while he shuddered and gasped and gripped the headboard to stay upright.
The sight of both of them—Dec still buried inside me, shaking with aftershock, and Nolan above me, trembling, his cock softening on my tongue—tipped me over.
My hand flew over myself and I came hard, my back arching off the mattress, a groan ripping from my chest that was guttural and raw and loud, my release hitting my abs and chest in hot streaks while my body clenched around Dec and my mouth still held Nolan and the world went white and stayed white for a long, long time.
The room settled.
Three men breathing. Ragged, slowing. Dec pulled out carefully. Collapsed beside me. Nolan lowered himself on my other side, his legs unsteady, his body folding onto the mattress with the boneless grace of total exhaustion.
I lay between them. Ruined. Destroyed. The happiest I'd been in my entire life.
Dec's arm found my waist. Nolan's head found my shoulder. Three men in a bed built for two, and nobody was complaining about the space.
Nolan's voice in the afternoon quiet. Wrecked. Barely above a whisper. "Is this real?"
Dec. The man who said the least. His voice low, certain, carrying the weight of mountains in a single syllable:
"Yes."
I grinned against the pillow. "You just had two dicks in me at the same time and you're still asking? I'm offended, Nolan."
His laugh was quiet, exhausted, warm, and it vibrated against my shoulder, and the feeling of his laughter against my skin was better than any orgasm, which was saying a lot given the one I'd just had.
"I meant all of it," he said softly. "Not just the sex. This."
Dec's arm tightened around my waist. His thumb traced a slow circle on my hip. "Yes," he said again. Fuller. Heavier. The voice of a man who meant it the way foundations meant it—all the way down.
The afternoon light filtered warm through the curtains.
The candle still burned, barely touched—we hadn't been long enough for it to melt more than a thin ring around the wick.
Dec's breathing slowed first—the soldier's ability to sleep when sleep was offered.
Nolan was drifting, his body softening against mine, the analytical mind releasing its grip one system at a time.
My leg didn't ache. For the first time in four months, the deep persistent throb that lived in the bone was quiet. Overruled. My mind was quiet too. The restless spinning, the jokes that covered the cracks—all of it had slowed to a hum that was almost peace.
I closed my eyes.
The blast wave hit the building before the sound did.
A percussive wall of force that shook the bed frame and rattled every surface in the room—the nightstand jumping, the candle toppling, hot wax splashing across wood, the flame dying.
Then the sound: a deep, concussive boom that I felt in my chest cavity, in my teeth, the bass note of a detonation that turned the air solid.
Then the secondary sounds—concrete cracking, metal shrieking, glass shattering in cascading waves, the heavy thud of debris hitting the ground.
I was on my feet before I recognized the movement. Muscle memory. The body responding to the sound of an explosion before the mind could catch up. Dec was faster—already in his jeans, his Sig in his hand, the weapon that lived under the pillow.
Nolan sat upright. Eyes wide, chest heaving. Not panic—calculation. His mind already running scenarios behind his eyes.
The alarm klaxon split the air. The clubhouse emergency system—a sound I'd heard twice before, both times followed by blood.
Through the window, smoke. Thick, black, chemical—the acrid stink of burning rubber and gasoline seeping through the walls. From the direction of the garage.
Dec crossed to the door. Opened it. The hallway already full of men—boots on concrete, shouts, organized chaos.
Hawk's voice cut through everything. Deep, absolute, carrying a fury that could have stripped paint from the walls.
"Garage! Now! Every man armed!"
Dec looked back at us. His face was the mask—tactical, locked, every trace of the man who'd been in our bed erased behind a discipline so total it was like watching a blast door seal shut.
But his eyes moved from me to Nolan and back, and in that fraction of a second before the soldier took over completely, I saw it: fear. Not for himself. For us.
"Get dressed." His voice was low, tight, vibrating with urgency. "Both of you. Now."
We were dressed in twenty seconds. Boots, jeans, shirts pulled over damp skin. Dec handed me the Glock from the drawer. Nolan stood by the door, unarmed, his face pale but steady, his jaw set, every analytical system online.
Dec went first, me a single step behind, Nolan in the rear. Down the hallway into acrid smoke and the sound of men running toward the thing that wanted to kill them.