Chapter 15 Unguarded
UNGUARDED
DECLAN
Sean's hip under my left hand. Nolan's under my right.
The fabric of their shirts warm against my palms as I pulled them forward, and the momentum carried all three of us onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and breath and the low, electric hum of a charge that had been building on a rooftop and was now demanding to be finished.
I was hard. Had been since Sean had announced his fifteen minutes with that grin, since Nolan had stood up and said I'll need fifteen as well with the decisive composure of a man who'd calculated the variables and liked the result.
The ache was thick and heavy against my thigh, my cock straining against the denim, and the anticipation had done what anticipation always did to me—sharpened every nerve, heightened every input, turned my body into an instrument tuned to the frequency of the two men now kneeling on the bed beside me.
I kissed Sean first. He opened immediately, hungry and familiar, tasting like toothpaste and the faint trace of the beer from the rooftop.
Eight years of this mouth and it still spiked my pulse.
His tongue found mine, aggressive, urgent, and I let the kiss deepen while my hand found the back of Nolan's neck and pulled him in.
Sean broke away. Nolan took his place. Different.
Nolan kissed with intention, every movement deliberate, his lips mapping mine with a precision that was its own form of heat.
I gripped his jaw, angled his head, took the kiss deeper, and he made a sound against my mouth—low, surrendered—that traveled straight to my cock.
We rotated. Sean kissing Nolan while my mouth found the side of Sean's neck, tongue tracing the tendon, tasting salt and clean skin.
Nolan kissing me while Sean's lips worked the curve of my shoulder, his breath hot and damp.
Three men on a bed, trading mouths and heat, hands wandering—Sean's fingers tracing my abs through the T-shirt, Nolan's palms flat on my chest, my own hands spread across the warm skin of their backs where their shirts had ridden up.
Every point of contact registered. Every touch catalogued. The analytical mind that tracked threats and counted exits was now tracking pleasure and mapping skin, and the repurposing of that precision felt like the most honest thing I'd done in fifteen years.
Sean's fingers found the hem of my shirt.
Nolan's joined them from the other side.
Together, they pulled it over my head, their hands coordinated without discussion, and the cool air hit my chest and stomach and the scar tissue on my ribs and the places where the bronze skin was still flushed from the rooftop.
Nolan's eyes traveled down my torso, his gaze lingering on the ridges of my abs, the width of my chest, and the heat in his expression made my breath catch.
I reached for Sean's shirt. Pulled it off in one motion, the red hair mussed, the pale freckled shoulders catching the lamplight, the lean muscle of his arms and chest flushed and warm.
Then Nolan's, slower, the fabric dragging across his collarbones, revealing the body he'd rebuilt from depletion into power—broad shoulders thick with new muscle, chest full and hard, the definition in his arms speaking to weeks of consistent work.
Both of them shirtless in the amber light, both hard, the outlines unmistakable against their jeans.
Sean couldn't wait. He never could.
He dropped forward onto all fours between us, that half-grin already forming, and reached for our waistbands.
He tugged my jeans and boxer briefs down in one rough motion, enough for my cock to spring free, the thick length slapping against my abs, and the air on the sensitive skin made my jaw tighten.
Then Nolan, same treatment, the fabric yanked down past his hips, Nolan's cock heavy and flushed, the downward curve full and slick at the tip.
Sean looked up at both of us. The grin.
Then he leaned forward and took Nolan into his mouth. Slow. Torturously slow. His lips barely moving, his tongue dragging a lazy path along the underside, his eyes half-closed with a satisfaction that was pure provocation. Nolan's head fell back, a rough exhale escaping through parted lips.
Sean pulled off. Turned to me. Same pace.
The head of my cock sliding between his lips with a deliberateness that bordered on cruelty, his tongue circling once, twice, the wet heat closing around me and then stopping.
Holding. Not moving. Just the pressure and the warmth and the cheeky refusal to give me more.
"Harder." My voice came out rough. Lower than I intended.
Sean's eyes lifted. Green and bright and full of a challenge I'd been rising to for eight years.
"Make me."
Something broke.
Not violently. Not suddenly. The way a dam breaks when the water has been rising for hours and the structure simply decides it's done holding.
My hands found his face, both of them, palms against his jaw, fingers curling behind his ears, and I held him steady and pushed my cock all the way into his mouth.
Past his lips, over his tongue, into the tight heat of his throat.
One smooth, controlled stroke that buried me to the base, his nose pressing against my abs, his throat working around my thickness.
"Fuck." Nolan's voice, raw, the word punched out of him by the sight. His hand found my thigh, gripping hard.
I held Sean there. Felt his throat constrict, relax, constrict again.
Felt the vibration of his moan travel through my shaft.
Then I pulled back, slow, the wet drag of his lips along my length making my vision blur, and pushed back in.
Deeper. Steady. Setting a rhythm that was firm without being rough, my hands cradling his face, controlling the depth, the pace, the angle.
Sean moaned around me. The sound was obscene and beautiful.
His right hand found Nolan's cock and wrapped around it, stroking in lazy counterpoint to the rhythm of my hips, and Nolan groaned and leaned forward and kissed me.
His mouth hot and open and desperate, his tongue against mine while Sean worked us both, and the combination of Nolan's mouth on mine and Sean's lips around my cock was enough to crack whatever remained of my composure.
I pulled out. Sean gasped, his lips swollen and wet, his pupils blown wide.
"Off the bed." I stood. My jeans hit the floor. Boxer briefs followed. Nolan and Sean scrambled to stand, shedding their remaining clothes, and for a moment the three of us stood in the lamplight—naked, hard, breathing heavy—and the sight of them hit me with a force I hadn't prepared for.
Sean. Lean and pale, the red hair on his chest catching the light, his cock thick and flushed and curving upward against his abs. The body he'd rebuilt from injury into a weapon.
Nolan. Broader, taller, his skin fairer than mine but darker than Sean's, the muscle packed dense through his chest and shoulders and thighs. His cock hung heavy, the downward curve full and slick, as big as mine but angled differently, the weight of it pulling slightly away from his body.
Two men. Mine. The possessiveness of the thought wasn't a feeling I'd expected from myself, but there it was. Primal.
Nolan dropped to his knees. Sean followed. Both of them on the floor in front of me, looking up, and the image—two muscular men kneeling before me, their faces flushed with want—hit a register I didn't know I had.
Sean gripped my shaft. Held it out toward Nolan like an offering.
Nolan leaned forward. Took me in. Slow, the way he did everything at first, each movement calculated, his lips stretching around my thickness, his jaw adjusting, his tongue pressing flat against the underside as he took me deeper. Inch by inch. Methodical. The analyst learning a new dataset.
"Fuck." Sean's voice, stripped of the grin, reduced to pure lust. "Nolan. That's so fucking hot."
Nolan's eyes lifted to mine. Dark, liquid, burning. An invitation written in a language that didn't need words.
I cupped his face. Both hands. The same way I'd held Sean. His jaw warm against my palms, his pulse hammering under my thumbs. I pushed deeper. Slow. Watching his throat work, watching his eyes water, watching the composure dissolve as I filled his mouth and kept pushing until he'd taken all of me.
"Good." The word left me before I'd authorized it. "That's good, Nolan."
He moaned. The vibration nearly ended me.
I pulled back. Found a rhythm. Steady, deep, my hips rocking forward into the wet heat of Nolan's throat, gripping my thighs, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that said more.
Beside him, Sean watched with his hand on himself, stroking slow, his expression stripped to reverence and reverential.
I pulled out of Nolan. Turned to Sean. Pushed in.
The familiar channel, the practiced angle, eight years of muscle memory guiding me past his gag reflex and into the tight clutch of his throat.
Two strokes. Three. Then back to Nolan, who opened for me immediately, hungry now, the tentativeness gone.
I switched between them. Faster. Two strokes in Sean's mouth, then two in Nolan's. The wet sounds filling the room, their groans mixing, my own breathing ragged and exposed, the discipline dismantled to its foundations.
"Bed." The word scraped out of my throat.
They moved. Nolan climbed onto the mattress, and before I could direct him he'd turned and taken me back into his mouth, sucking harder, deeper, gripping my hips, pulling me into his throat with a hunger that was devouring. Sean moved behind Nolan. Spread him with both hands. Lowered his mouth.
The sound Nolan made around my cock when Sean's tongue found him was a vibration that traveled through my entire body.
His back arched, his hands tightened on my hips, and the moan was continuous, muffled, desperate—a man being taken apart from both ends by two people who knew exactly what they were doing.