Chapter 12 #2
I know that move. I've seen before, through the office door at Frank's, and I've mentally replayed it nine hundred times since.
In all nine hundred replays, I got to see what happens under that palm.
Now the jeans are staying on, the belt's staying on, and his face is doing absolutely nothing at all.
"He's—" I start.
"I know," Patrick says, and tips my chin back toward his cock.
I go back down, but my focus is split. Half of my is savoring the intoxicating taste of Patrick’s pre-cum. The other half is six feet to the left, dressed from the waist down.
Patrick reads me inside a minute. It’s one of his many talents.
He pulls me off his cock, hauls me up onto the bed with that easy strength that empties my brain, and lays me out on my back against the pillows.
Then he reaches for the nightstand, where a bottle of lube is already out, cap loose.
I’ve been so preoccupied with anticipation I hadn’t even noticed.
"You staged the nightstand," I say.
"Quiet."
"You staged the whole room, you—"
The click of the cap shuts me up. He kneels between my thighs and pushes them wide with his knees, and whatever I was about to call him dissolves, because now there's a slick shape pressing against my hole, cold for a second, his fingertip circling, teasing.
And then the tip of one finger presses inside and the word is gone forever.
He opens me up the way he does everything, patient, and oh so thorough.
Immune to my opinions on the pace. One finger, deep, curling, while I complain at the ceiling.
More lube, cold again, then warm, and a second finger works in alongside the first. The stretch pulls a long sound out of me.
He knows exactly where to press and how long to stay there, and my cock is leaking a wet trail onto my stomach.
I grab two fists of the comforter and hang on.
That's when he starts talking, low, even.
Not to me.
"Watch his hands," Patrick says.
About me.
"He grabs on when he wants to last."
Oh no.
"He gets quiet right before—" his fingers curl, pressing directly against my prostate, and my back comes off the mattress "—there."
I'm being narrated.
He's inside me and reading me out loud to my audience, calm and accurate. It should be humiliating, but my cock is leaking on my stomach about it. So apparently it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.
Being watched I knew about. Being watched I've wanted so long it's basically canon.
Nobody warned me about being described.
"Third's the one he begs on," Patrick says, and gives me the third.
I beg.
Instantly, shamelessly, please and his name and please again, and somewhere underneath my own noise I hear it.
Denim creaking. The chair taking weight differently.
When I force my eyes open, Wall's hand isn't flat anymore.
It's moving, slow, and he’s gripping the massive bulge in his jeans, jaw tight, chest heaving.
Jeans. Still. On.
"Patrick." My voice comes out wrecked. "He's holding back on us."
"He'll get there." He doesn't even glance up from what his fingers are doing to me. Calm as ever, no pressure aimed anywhere, and I get the doctrine, I do.
Wall comes to it himself or it doesn't count. That’s fine.
But I'm still me, and if Wall thinks he can sit over there half-dressed, then I'm going to be a show no man alive can watch with his pants on.
Patrick leans over me, one hand braced in the pillows beside my head, three fingers still working me open. I grab the back of his neck and drag his mouth down to mine and kiss him filthy, riding his fingers with everything I have, knees as wide as my body lets me, angled at that chair, zero shame.
Shame and I parted ways a long time ago and I don't miss it.
Patrick pulls his fingers out and I whine at the loss, and then his whole weight comes down over me and the whine dies, because oh.
This. Skin everywhere, his chest on mine, his thighs pushing my thighs even wider as his cock slides against mine, slick with both of us, and we groan at the same time, which never happens.
He rolls his hips, slow. I hook a leg around him and roll back, and we grind like that, wet and filthy, trading air, and for a moment I forget the chair entirely.
Then I remember the chair, and remembering makes it hotter.
I turn my head to where Wall is watching us move against each other with his lips parted and his hand pressing hard on the denim.
I hold his eyes while I drag my cock along Patrick's as slow as I can stand, letting him see all of it.
The sound that comes out of him is low and rough.
Mine.
I earned that one, and I'm keeping it.
"Patrick." I rasp it against his jaw, breathless. "Patrick, if you don't fuck me in the next minute there’ll be consequences."
He lets out a chuckle, low and clipped, and reaches for the nightstand, where a condom sits next to the lube.
I snatch the foil out of his fingers before he can open it, and his eyebrow goes up.
"My show too," I say, and I tear it open and roll it down his cock slowly, using both hands, watching his stomach jump under my knuckles. And I make sure the chair has a clean line on every second of it. Somewhere to my left, the denim creaks again. Excellent.
Patrick pours lube over himself, strokes it down his cock, and drops the bottle somewhere in the sheets that are already ruined. His eyes come up to mine, and everything in me goes greedy and quiet at once.
"Ready?"
"Since the office," I say, and I mean it so hard my voice cracks.
When he pushes into me in one long, slow, relentless slide that stretches me open and wipes my head blank, I give the room every decibel in my body.
Somewhere inside all of it, a zipper.
Not ours. Ours are on the floor.
Opening my eyes takes actual work, but it’s worth it.
Wall's jeans are shoved open, his fist is around his cock, and even that one glimpse tells me my imagination has been lowballing me for weeks.
His head is tipped back a fraction, and he's watching Patrick move inside me with an expression I'm going to think about on my deathbed.
"There," I gasp, to Wall, to the ceiling, to Wisconsin. "Was that so hard—"
Patrick snaps his hips, and the sentence is gone.
He starts slow. Long strokes, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in until I feel every inch of him twice over, one hand hot on my hip.
I hook my ankles behind his thighs and meet him, rolling up into every push.
The stretch burns sweet, then settles, then settles deeper, until all that's left is full and good and not nearly enough, and I tell him so. Loudly.
So he gives me more. He kisses me goodbye, kneels up, grips the backs of my knees and folds me, pressing my legs up toward my chest, and the new angle drives him straight over the spot that whites my vision out.
The sound I make has no performance in it at all.
There's nothing left to perform with. My cock bounces against my stomach with every thrust, mad and untouched, and I could come exactly like this and I don't want to yet, and the chair answers me.
That's something I wasn’t ready for. The chair answers.
I get loud, and Wall's breath breaks. His fist speeds up, and I get louder. He groans, low and rough, and my hole clenches around Patrick's cock so hard he swears through his teeth.
And now we're all three of us in one rhythm, no wires or doors between us.
Everything I've wanted since he first walked in on us, and couldn't say until now, and I don't have to, because—
Wall stands up.
Everything stops.
Patrick goes still inside me, deep, holding. My heart drops through the mattress, because there's a version of this where he's leaving. Where it got too big and he's—
Wall bends down and unties his shoes.
Air comes back into me so fast I'm dizzy with it.
He straightens, opens his belt, and looks at me while he does it.
Right at me, steady, while the leather slides free.
Then his eyes move to Patrick and hold there through the whisper of fabric, and the eye contact he maintains while he strips is almost more than the stripping itself.
He steps out of the jeans and folds them over the arm of the chair.
Folds them. Even now. I'd laugh if I had the breath, but I don't, because he's naked now, all of him, still holding my eyes, and oh my God.
I knew he was big. Everyone assumes he's big. But assuming is one thing, and seeing him standing there in nothing at all is a different religion. Those hands. A flush running all the way down his chest that his face refuses to admit to. And his cock, heavy and flushed, glistening in the dim light.
Proportionate.
Completely proportionate to the rest of him.
My imagination owes me an apology.
"Look at that," Patrick breathes out, his words low and warm, and Wall's jaw ticks, and my hole clenches around Patrick’s cock just from the sound of his voice doing that while he's inside me.
Wall sits back down.
And he leans back.
For the first time all night he leans back, settles into the leather with his fist around his cock and his eyes on us, and nothing about him is asking permission anymore.
The room gets ten degrees hotter and stays there.
Patrick starts moving again, and whatever careful was left in him is gone.
Deeper now, rougher, his control peeling away the way I love best, one layer at a time, and I stop making words entirely.
The bed is loud, my blood is loud, Wall's breathing is loud, three people sounding like one animal, and the heat builds low in me until I'm shaking with it.
I'm so close it hurts. I've been close since the zipper.
Patrick reads it off me. His hand leaves my hip and wraps around my cock, strokes once, twice, and then his other hand takes my jaw, gentle and absolute, and turns my face toward the chair.
Gravel meets ear. "Eyes on him when you come."
WALL
THEO'S EYES FIND mine.