Chapter 27 #2
Wall rolls the condom on and slicks his cock with lube, careful past what his breathing says he can afford.
Theo stretches out along my side, skin against mine from shoulder to ankle, and I turn and kiss him, long, deep, cherishing his scent and his taste, my hand closing around his cock where it lies hot and hard against my hip, and he hums into my mouth.
"Go slow at the start," he tells Wall between kissing me, co-director to the end. "Then don't."
The blunt press of Wall’s cock against my hole gathers all my breath into one place. He pushes in slow, a steady stretch, then a pause I can hear costing him. The fullness rides the line where too much lives without crossing it.
I'm loud. Really loud. The empty seats send it back to me, and for once in my life I don't turn my own volume down.
"Breathe," Wall says, a student graduated, coaching his teacher.
He bottoms out and stops, forehead lowering to mine, both of us shaking. Theo's voice lands at my ear, soft and wrecked. "Look at you two. All that theater, and this was underneath it the whole time."
"Move," I say, and it leaves sharp. I let it.
Wall moves.
The first slow movements take me apart with a thoroughness I'd applaud if I could think.
Wall watches my face and adjusts off everything he finds there—the angle that arches my back off the mat, and the spot that drags sound up out of my chest. I grope for something to hold with my free hand until he pins it flat beneath his.
My other hand keeps working Theo in long pulls that leave him gasping into my shoulder, mouthing at my jaw, and my ear, and whatever patch of skin he can reach.
"Tell him," Theo pants, lifting his head. "Tell him how he's doing. Trust me."
"So good," Wall says, low and even, right against my mouth. "Taking me like you were built for it. Best thing I've ever watched. And I watch everything."
I thought I understood praise. I'm the one who deals it out and watches it land. From underneath, told instead of telling, nothing in my inventory covers it. My cock jumps against my stomach, untouched, and gives me away completely.
Theo leans into my eyeline, curls hanging, grin gone tender. I want him so fucking much it hurts.
"Come here. Let me—"
He's moving before I finish, knees bracketing my head, and I pull him down by the hip, rough and impatient, and take his cock in my mouth. The groan he lets go hits the glass and comes back doubled.
After that, the whole world narrows to just rhythm.
Wall deep in me, driving now, the pace I finally asked for out loud, Theo rocking shallow and careful into my mouth, one hand braced on the crossbar, the other laced through Wall's on my chest. Above me, they kiss. With my eyes closed, I can only hear it, wet and close and perfect, and for the first time in my life, I’m held at every point, running exactly nothing.
A fist closes around my cock, I can’t tell whose, step one of ending me before I can help it.
Step two comes salty, when the first rope of cum lands in my throat, Theo’s moan ringing so long it gets doubled by its own echo, and I come hard, moaning around Theo’s cock with my whole chest, clenching down until Wall curses, loses all rhythm, and follows, groaning my name into my neck.
Then we're a pile. Breath, cooling sweat, steam lifting faintly into the cold, in the middle of my space, under my net.
The first detail to reach me afterward is that the mats have migrated, my shoulder blade resting on actual ice. The second is Theo attempting to shift, discovering his leg is asleep, and going down across the both of us like a folding chair.
"I'm fine," he announces from somewhere near Wall's armpit. "This is where I live now."
The laugh starts low in my stomach and gets away from me, and then all three of us are at it until we're useless, wheezing into each other's shoulders on stolen mats under my own crossbar.
"Man, the acoustics," Theo gasps. "I told you. This building loves us."
Over on the bench, my phone lights up, dims, lights up again, the world still busy forming opinions about a cup with three toothbrushes in it.
Let it glow.
***
WE DRESS SLOWLY, loose and stupid and warm, trading clothes back across the bench. It's Theo who goes quiet first.
He's standing at the gate with his shoes in his hand, looking down the ice. At the far end, the visiting crease sits in half-dark, blue paint fading to gray where the work lights give up.
I follow his eyes, and the date we've all been tip-toeing around for weeks climbs out of the schedule and onto the ice with us.
Last game of the season. Chicago, here. Their spot is locked.
Ours isn't. Win and we're in, lose, and the season is over.
Behind us, on a bench, working his feet back into street shoes, a man who will skate out of that far crease in full gear, in this building, and try with everything he has to end our season.
He'll be right to.
We've known all year. It sat on the calendar like any other home date, right up until tonight made this ice ours.
Theo exhales at the far net and sums it up on a single exhale. "Well, fuck."