Chapter 26 #2
Everard pulled his hand forward, slid it over Vitya’s bared throat, entrapping him gently against D’Arcy’s body. He felt his pirate swallow and gasp as he was made pliant by D’Arcy’s slow grind behind him.
Vitya’s hands dropped to help with endless ties, his tucked shirtsleeves; soon he was peeled down to breeches, white-blond curls, pale pink nipples, the taper of shoulder to waist that drove Everard to madness when he had it beneath him. Or above him. Anywhere at all in his vicinity.
D’Arcy’s hands explored and pulled and splayed; his hips ground. Everard drew back and stared, biting his lip with restraint. Was this truly what D’Arcy wanted? What Vitya wanted?
Everard wanted it.
D’Arcy grinned as he watched him, sweat already on his brow, eyes dark.
“Firstly, Captain,” he gasped, open-mouthed against Vitya’s pale, fuzzed nape, the shell of his ear, “kiss your husband. It’s been a very long week.
” He pushed with his hips and hands, a sinuous wave, and Vitaliy straightened, pulled Everard close, and obeyed.
The kiss was soft and questioning. Everard didn’t mind, for as long as those lips were on him, he was pleased to lean in and deepen it; but D’Arcy, never a patient lovemaker, seemed to become frustrated with this.
He ground forward, gently shoving, pulling back, demanding response.
Vitaliy grunted over Everard’s mouth in irritation but, when a push-pull of D’Arcy’s put their pricks at last into hot, still-clothed contact, gasped and even bit once.
Content with this, D’Arcy had moved back; to watch, perhaps, or—no, he was behind Everard now, and his hands were wrapping round, tugging at the buttons of Everard’s fall, fast and deft.
Vitaliy helped, now kissing Everard so thoroughly and full-on, it was a good thing Everard wasn’t focusing on undressing himself.
Quite strange, to have four hands upon Everard at once, ministrating, disrobing, everything but his shirt. D’Arcy’s fingers trailed his thigh, his calf, his ankle as each leg was bared; the odd kiss made a sparking path.
D’Arcy wrapped one hand round Everard’s prick, positioning it tenderly. He pushed, moving the three of them in tandem, hands, arse, pricks. Everard broke Vitya’s kiss to moan into his neck.
He didn’t see why he and Vitya had an opposite state of undress until D’Arcy reached round and tapped significantly on Vitya’s shoulders.
Vitya sank to his knees with a knowing smile.
Everard said, “Oh, God.” D’Arcy hissed his approval, hooked his chin over Everard’s left shoulder, then drew up what he could of Everard’s shirt tight in one hand.
Vitya took the head of him in swiftly, eagerly, wetly. Everard cursed.
“I thought so,” D’Arcy purred. “Hell. Look at those lips. That prick.”
Vitaliy gave them a dark-blue look, glare and—affection?
—and consternation, and then redoubled his efforts; Everard, between flashes of starlike bliss, made another realisation: Vitya liked this, liked the focus on his lips, liked how D’Arcy had made them both into something almost object-like, framed for display—
He whimpered. “Ah—Jesus. Ah.”
Vitya had revenge in the clutching of Everard’s arse, hands hard to either side, spreading; Everard groaned. D’Arcy’s fingers, missing nothing, insinuated themselves in the cleft there, pressing, stroking.
It was too much, all at once. “I don’t think— Vitya— God— Oh.” He groped backward with his hand not wrapped in Vitya’s hair. “Preston!”
“Quite right,” D’Arcy breathed. “Good lord. I’d better stop, then.” He caught the hand in his and squeezed. “Hang on, love.”
“Hang on? I can’t possibly— I’d like to see you here—” Everard made a desperate noise.
Vitya let go Everard’s arse, pulled off his prick barely in time. Breathing hard, lips red, he shot D’Arcy a triumphant look of challenge that almost sent Everard over in spite of the effort of the abrupt stop.
Everard heaved in careful breaths. “I shan’t survive,” he gasped. “You’ll have me wrecked between you.”
D’Arcy laughed. “Not yet.”
Vitaliy stood and kissed Everard, undoing buttons, not touching nearly enough skin as he removed Everard’s shirt.
Everard made up for it by breaking free and revealing all of Vitaliy in a single rough shove of breeches.
He was hard, already leaking. Everard stroked him with a tight fist, almost angrily; when Vitya drew back, it was with wide eyes and flaring nostrils.
He looked up to D’Arcy and said roughly, “You, too.”
D’Arcy laughed more as he stripped, which seemed to exasperate and endear Vitaliy to equal measure; he watched with gleaming, blue-black eyes. And as the last of D’Arcy’s clothes had been toed away, Vitaliy’s hips bumped against Everard’s. He put a hasty, restraining hand on Everard’s wrist.
Everard raised an eyebrow. “You did call him pretty.” He looked back over his shoulder, and raised the other brow. “Turnabout?” he suggested to D’Arcy.
“Hells, yes.”
D’Arcy was on his knees in a flash. After a confirming pause—Vitya nodded—D’Arcy took him in, all the way down.
Vitya’s eyes went wide; he gasped in surprise. He looked up to Everard with a wry, shocked expression: I didn’t expect this.
It was Everard’s turn to giggle, sounding half-mad.
Vitaliy put his unoccupied hand on the panelling to brace himself, tensed his broad thighs. The hand he’d put in D’Arcy’s curls clutched and seized, roving through.
Everard’s laughter faded abruptly at the sight. “Oh, Dios,” he said. “That looks…” He kept his hands palms-flat on his thighs so that he wouldn’t work himself to spending in a second, was how it looked. He could watch it forever. “Good lord, Preston.”
D’Arcy made a pleased-sounding hum, then truly went to task.
Vitya didn’t whimper in his throes; he gulped, increasingly faster.
But though the perfect lips had dropped open, turnabout didn’t seem to be forthcoming—he wasn’t reaching true desperation.
There was no colour on his cheeks, and in fact maybe even the beginnings of concern between his brows.
His fingers were too careful, too hesitant in D’Arcy’s hair.
Everard touched D’Arcy’s shoulder. He drew back, panting.
Vitaliy relaxed, relief apparent in the line of his shoulders and the instant drop of his hands. He shot Everard a grateful look.
“Right. Not your trigger,” D’Arcy said, matter-of-fact, as he fell back to his heels.
Vitaliy shook his head. “Not especially,” he whispered.
D’Arcy didn’t move. “Hmm.” His eyes narrowed again, polecat-like. “It’s Everard’s, though,” he said, equally unconcerned. “Watching.”
Vitaliy’s gaze flew up to Everard, questioning. “Yes?”
Everard nodded, only somewhat reluctantly. It was true.
“Mm-hm,” D’Arcy confirmed. “Look at him—he doesn’t dare touch himself just now. Adores watching me swallow a man down. You’ll believe it?”
Vitya grunted. And then—then colour began on his cheeks. His prick leaped anew. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Good; you ought. And I think,” D’Arcy said, “I think you also ought give him what he wants. What d’you say?”
Everard was incapable of words, excepting a strangled “Preston…”
Vitaliy was as still as stone. His eyes were very wide, bright, focused on Everard alone.
“I think,” D’Arcy said, “you owe him quite a lot.”
Everard held his breath, biting his lip hard. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure this would go the way D’Arcy meant it to—Vitaliy had been so concerned about Everard obliging him—
—but his concern had been Everard being obliged to him, he realised. He’d been worried Everard would’ve had no other choice.
Not the other way round.
“Don’t you?” D’Arcy said, murderously soft, sensing his kill at hand. “You began this. You want to do this for him. He deserves it. Don’t you think so?”
The other way round… where Vitaliy was the one indebted—the one, perhaps, obliging—
Vitaliy shuddered all over. He looked as though he were on a precipice, disbelief and desire, begrudging admiration, too.
His breath came in gulps again, and this time, no one was touching him; his prick leapt and bounced, leaking.
Both his hands were spread against the pale blue panelling behind him, all ten fingertips white and strained as they held him up.
His gaze fixed on Everard, agonised, black with want.
“I— I— Yes,” he gasped. “Fuck! You are a bastard. Yes.” His hand shot out and pushed down his stand to the proper angle, the angle of unmistakable demand. “Yes.”
D’Arcy wasted no time; Vitya’s prick disappeared into his throat amid three simultaneous groans. Then it was turnabout after all; Vitaliy was cursing in half-syllables, his hands deep in curls, hips shuddering in restraint, socked feet flexing. His gaze never dropped from Everard.
“Thrust, Vitya,” Everard encouraged. “Go on. He can take it.”
Vitaliy gasped, in, out, louder than Everard had ever heard him. His eyes were wild, pale-lashed, a thing of beauty. “But…”
D’Arcy made an urgent, affirmative noise. Still Vitya held himself back.
“Preston’s right,” Everard said. “I don’t dare touch myself. Not for a second. Thrust,” he demanded.
“I cannot,” Vitya gasped. “No—”
D’Arcy’s wet back-and-forth halted; Everard put his thumb to his nape in reassurance.
“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Really. Dear God, look at you. Do you like me watching, Vitya?”
He didn’t need an answer, and Vitaliy knew it; his head fell to the wall, eyes staring up to the rafters, chest heaving; he was rapidly losing the battle against stoicism.
“Yes,” he hissed anyway.
D’Arcy chuckled and resumed. He let up astutely where he needed to let up, to let all of them breathe, stave off release, share incredulous, dazed looks. Then he went again. He really was very good.