Chapter 19 House Rules #3
I reached for the lube from where it sat on the table's edge and slicked my fingers first, then myself, slow and thorough, watching Troy watch my hand with an expression that had no composure left in it whatsoever.
Dmitri held him steady with his hands gripping his hips, the lace bunched and twisted from everything that had happened in the last hour, and Troy sat fully seated on Dmitri with the patience of someone running on the last reserves of self-control.
“Breathe,” Dmitri said quietly into his shoulder. “Just breathe.”
I moved behind them and ran one hand down the center of Troy's back. I felt the shiver that moved through his whole spine and pressed my lips between his shoulder blades once. Then I lined up alongside Dmitri.
The pressure alone made Troy make a sound that wasn't a word.
“Still okay?” I asked low.
“Don't you dare stop.” His hands found the table edge and gripped. “Don't you dare.”
I pressed forward.
The resistance was extraordinary and the heat of it was extraordinary and the way Troy's back curved and his head dropped and the long fractured sound that tore out of him as I pushed inside alongside Dmitri was the most honest thing I'd ever heard from any human being in my life.
I felt Dmitri against me through the thin barrier of flesh between us, felt him pulse once, felt both of us buried inside Troy simultaneously and my vision went white at the edges.
Nobody moved for three full seconds.
Troy was shaking with his hands white-knuckled on the table, his forearms pressed flat, his chest heaving, and the lace trembling with the effort of holding himself open for both of us.
“Fuck,” he breathed. Then again, lower. “Fuck.”
“Tell me,” I said.
“Full.” The word came out barely there. “So full. Don't stop. Please don't stop.”
Dmitri moved first with a small roll of his hips that drew a gasp from Troy and a groan from me simultaneously. Then I moved, pulling fractionally back and pressing forward, and the three of us found it together in stuttering increments, a rhythm that built from nothing into something unstoppable.
Troy stopped trying to form words entirely.
The sounds he made were continuous and formless and loud, pitched higher every time both of us hit deep together, his whole body caught between the two of us with nowhere to go except further.
My hands gripped the lace at his hips. Dmitri's hands braced against the table on either side of Troy's knees.
The slap of skin and the obscene wet sounds of three bodies this tangled filled every corner of my kitchen and I couldn't have cared less.
“Look at you,” I said against the back of his neck. “Taking both of us. Fuck, Troy.”
“Yes—don't stop, don't stop—”
Dmitri's rhythm stuttered. “Blyat—I am—”
“Me too,” I said. The heat at the base of my spine had reached the point of no return with the tightening in my thighs and the full-body clench of something massive bearing down. “Troy—”
“Together,” Troy managed. “All of us—please—together—”
We came within seconds of each other.
Dmitri first, buried deep, the groan that came out of him scraping the floor of his chest with his hands slamming flat to the table.
Then me, hard on his heels, driving in as far as I could go while Troy clenched around both of us and the sensation folded my spine and stripped every coherent thought I had left entirely clean.
Troy didn't come yet, still shaking between us and still full of both of us, making sounds that were desperate and continuous.
I pulled out carefully. Dmitri followed. And Troy made a broken sound of loss that was immediately replaced by something else when I took his hand and pulled him around to face us.
Dmitri and I dropped to our knees simultaneously.
Troy looked down at us both with wrecked eyes and an expression I'd only ever seen fragments of before, never the whole thing and never like this with every wall down and every careful distance collapsed.
Dmitri took the base of him. I took the head. Together, with our lips and tongues working from different angles with no coordination required, just want and just the accumulated weight of the last hour pointed directly at taking Troy apart completely.
Troy's hand went into my hair. His other fist closed in Dmitri's. His breathing went ragged immediately with his thighs beginning to shake within thirty seconds and the lace trembling against the outsides of our faces.
I felt him crest and felt the pulse of it against my tongue, and I pulled back just enough, and Dmitri did the same, and Troy came apart above us in long hot stripes across both our faces.
The sound that tore out of him was loud enough to reach the street.
His hips rolled forward through every wave with his hands tightening and his whole body shaking with the force of it.
Dmitri turned to me and pressed his lips to my jaw, licking what had landed there, and I did the same to him, slow and deliberate, both of us cleaning the other while Troy watched from above with blown dark eyes and the expression of someone completely undone.
“Da,” Dmitri said softly. “Very good morning.”
I rose and turned Troy toward the table, pressing him gently down over it. He went without protest.
I spread him open with my thumbs pressing gently into the muscle on either side, opening him enough to see what we'd left there. Both of us, combined, slicking slowly down the inside of his thigh.
Nobody moved for a long moment.
Troy's cheek was still pressed to the table. Dmitri had one hand flat to the kitchen floor where he'd braced himself at some point in the last twenty minutes. My knees ached from the tile. The morning light was aggressively cheerful about all of it.
Then Troy started laughing.
Not quietly or politely, but full-bodied and helpless laughter with his face still against the table, his shoulders shaking, the lace askew and the apron somewhere on the floor and his entire situation genuinely undignified in a way he was finding hilarious rather than mortifying.
“What,” I said.
“Nothing.” He lifted his head. His eyes were bright and wet with it. “Nothing, just.” He gestured vaguely at the three of us, at the kitchen, at the eggs congealing on the counter. “Look at the state of this.”
Dmitri sat up from the floor with the particular dignity of a man who refused to acknowledge that he'd just been on a kitchen floor. He reached for his abandoned coffee mug, took a long and measured drink, and considered the middle distance.
“Is good kitchen,” he said finally.
Troy dissolved entirely.
I looked at Dmitri. Dmitri looked at me over the rim of his coffee mug with an expression of complete serenity.
I felt something crack open in my chest that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with the absurdity of standing half-naked in my own kitchen at nine in the morning covered in evidence of the last hour.
I started laughing too.
Troy pointed at me immediately. “Don't. Don't you dare. You started this.”
“You were wearing lace at the stove.”
“You bought me the lace.”
“That's—” I stopped. “That's a fair point actually.”
“Thank you.” Troy pushed himself upright from the table with considerably less grace than usual, the stockings sliding down his calves, and caught sight of himself in the dark reflection of the microwave. He stared at his own reflection for a full three seconds. “I look absolutely destroyed.”
“Da,” Dmitri confirmed without unkindness.
“You could have lied.”
“I am not a liar.” Dmitri set his mug down and glanced at Troy with warmth underneath the composure. “You look very good destroyed. This is compliment.”
Troy opened his mouth, closed it, and pointed at Dmitri the way you point at someone who has said something you refuse to dignify but can't actually argue with.
Dmitri picked his boxer briefs up from the floor and stepped into them with complete equanimity. He looked around the kitchen at the various evidence of the morning, the overturned lube cap on the table, the apron on the floor, and Troy's lace underwear still somewhere near the chair leg.
“You have nice home,” he said to me with perfect sincerity.
“Thank you,” I said, because what else do you say.
Troy made a sound that was half laugh and half something else. He reached for the apron from the floor, shaking it out, and found a smear across the front of it that made him hold it at arm's length.
“The apron is a casualty,” he announced.
“I'll get another one.”
“You'll get another one.” He dropped it in the sink. “Very blasé about the apron situation.”
“I'm very blasé about most situations now. You've recalibrated me.”
Troy looked at me for a moment with something behind his eyes that was warmer than the laugh and softer than everything that had come before it, and then he glanced over at the plate of eggs on the counter.
“Breakfast is cold now,” he said.
“I can make more.” I grabbed the apron and handed it to him. “You two sit. I'll cook.”
“You are cooking? After that?” Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “You are very domestic, Declan.”
“Someone has to feed you.” I started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “Besides, all of us just came. Least I can do is make sure you eat.”
Troy pulled the apron on and sat at the table with Dmitri. They both watched me cook with expressions that were entirely too smug.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Troy said. “Just enjoying the view.”
I flipped him off and kept cooking.
We ate breakfast like nothing had happened, like we hadn't just had a threesome on the kitchen table, like this was completely normal.
Maybe it was becoming normal. Maybe this was just what our lives looked like now.
When we finished eating, I looked at Troy. “You want to come to the training facility with me today?”
He blinked. “To watch you train?”
“To watch. Maybe join in if you want.” I shrugged. “Figured you might be getting stir-crazy sitting around the house all day.”