Chapter 27 Will #3
The fog clears, and reality comes hurtling toward me the second we get to our place. The familiar scent of Mat’s things and my things mix together and smell like home. Like safety. Like things that are known.
Trouble removes the leather jacket he threw on when we left the bar and drapes it over the back of the sofa.
He ambles over and perches on one of the barstools in the kitchen, studying us intently as he spins slowly from side to side.
I can’t smell him from where I’m standing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know for a fact he’s the exact opposite of safety.
A linear mile from things that are known.
Mat pours three no-nonsense shots of tequila and puts on some music. I don’t know the name of the song. I don’t need to because I know the name of the playlist: Imma Get Laid.
I reel in confusion.
How did we get here?
How did we go from idiotically planning to tell guys we’re dating to avoid being hit on one minute to willfully bringing a guy home the next?
Trouble knocks his drink back and sets his glass down without so much as a grimace.
“Well, this has been titillating,” he says. From the way he says the word, I can tell he likes it. I like it, too, though I suspect it’s for a different reason. “But I better get going before I show you boys how I earned my name.”
“Stay,” Mat says quickly.
“Come on, neither of you is gay, and I’m queer as Christmas. Based on those facts alone, we must all accept that our little romance has run its course.”
“What do we have to do to prove to you we’re gay?” Mat has the nerve to sound sure of himself despite the absolute crock of shit he’s talking. “Tell us, and we’ll do it.”
“Oh, baby,” says Trouble, his voice dripping with sympathy, “you can’t play gay chicken with me.
I’m fully gay. Believe me, I’ll win. I’ll kick your asses six ways from Sunday.
” He hops off the stool, landing gracefully on his feet.
“Anyway, it’s been super fun, but I must dash, even if it’s only to save you from yourselves. ”
“Try us.” There’s that voice again. Mat’s voice. Certain and resolute.
“That’s what you want? You want me to try you?” Trouble rolls his eyes profusely, waving dismissively in our direction and finishing with a quick flick of his wrist. “Fine, kiss.”
Mat and I both shuffle forward wordlessly and lean in toward Trouble.
Like I said, Tweedledum and Tweedledee have nothing on us.
“No, no.” He smiles patiently, clearly all too aware of the level of intellect he’s currently dealing with.
“I mean, kiss each other.” To drive his point home, he places a hand on both our chests and applies a hint of pressure, nudging us toward each other.
Like that, I know what the air at the bar felt like.
When he was dancing. I know what the space that crackled between him and other people felt like.
Static. A strong current flows through me, entering where his hand touches my body and trickling into my circulatory system.
Blood thickens. My heart starts pumping harder.
Mat turns to me. From the look on his face, Trouble’s touch has had a similar effect on him. His mouth is slack, jaw hanging open. His eyes are like they were earlier. Round and pleading.
Are we doing this, or what? they ask.
I blink twice for yes.
He closes his eyes and tilts his face up.
His mouth isn’t slack or open anymore. It’s pinched tightly shut.
I quickly do the same. Both of us lean forward without moving our feet.
When our lips meet, they’re pursed and tense.
Two straight lines press firmly against each other.
We stay like that for exactly three seconds before breaking away, victorious in our effort.
At least, that’s what we think.
Trouble is quite the opposite of impressed.
He shakes his head gravely. “That would be pathetic if it wasn’t so sad.”
He takes his hands off our chests and steps back.
My blood turns to ice. It runs cold from the absence of his touch.
Without thinking, I catch his hand, wrapping mine tightly around it.
Holding on to him, stopping him from moving away, and leaving me frozen.
I look at Mat. There’s a glint of alarm in his eyes.
His ribcage is moving up and down. Harder and faster than it usually does.
“Open your mouth this time,” I mutter, taking a breath to steady myself.
Then I lean in.
This time his lips are soft when we touch.
Softer than I was expecting them to be. Warmer too.
I curl my free hand around the back of his neck and hold him in place, allowing my tongue to find its way into his mouth.
He takes a second to respond. When he does, his tongue moves against mine, approaching and retreating.
He tastes strangely familiar, like inside jokes and tequila.
He feels familiar too. My hand on his neck and his chest against mine feels like something that’s happened before.
Well, fuck me.
Mat’s a good kisser.
A way better kisser than I imagined him to be.
It strikes me distantly as odd that I’ve imagined the type of kisser Mat is without ever consciously thinking about it. It feels like a big deal, and it’s definitely something I’m going to have to come back to and think about more, but now’s not the time.
Right now, Mat and I both want to get into Trouble.
We part and look over at him. He’s animated. Alive. He looks like he’s fully awake for the first time since we met him. Dark pools of arousal gather strength in his eyes. It’s immediately clear to me that up to this very moment, neither of us has come close to having Trouble’s full attention.
Now that we have it. We like it.
We want to keep it.
I don’t need to look at Mat to know he’s smiling.
I can feel it. He moves first, reaching for Trouble’s waist and pulling him toward us.
He kisses him hard. Fast and overenthusiastic.
I let go of Trouble’s hand and run the backs of my fingers up his arm.
I run them through his hair, gently moving it out of the way, clearing a path to his throat.
I kiss his neck softly. A whisper of lips on skin.
I’m aware of Mat beside me. His shoulder presses into mine, grounding me.
He pulls away, leaving Trouble’s lips glistening, and turns his beautiful face gently to me.
A big hand traces a sharp jawline. A thumb circles an aristocratic chin and presses it down, gently parting pillowy lips.
It’s an offer.
A gift from a friend.
The flood of arousal it sends through me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
It rips through my body. Through my chest and my limbs.
It heats up and expands. Stretching, thickening, and pulsing.
It finds its way to my groin, stiffening me until I’m uncomfortable.
To the point the edges of my field of vision blur and my focus narrows.
All I see is Trouble.
All I want is Trouble.
And yet, I feel the familiar steadiness, the solidness, the weight and comfort, of my friend at my side.
Trouble watches me with a detached sort of interest, daring me, challenging me, inviting me in.
I lean down and cover his mouth with mine, slowly inching my tongue into his, setting the mood and the pace of the kiss, but not for long.
He forces his tongue into my mouth hard, raising himself onto his toes.
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. The little shit’s trying to be the boss of the kiss.
I run my fingers through his hair again, but this time I clench a fist at the nape of his neck and jerk it back suddenly. A low, desperate growl leaks out of Trouble, lighting a match and pouring gasoline on the mood in the room.
I don’t know who moves first. I’m not completely sure. The jury’s out on that one. It could be Mat, it could be Trouble, but if I’m honest, my money’s on me. Either way, we crash down the hallway, bumping into doorways and walls as we stumble to the bedroom in a frenzy of lips, mouths, and tongues.
We find ourselves in Mat’s room for no reason other than the fact it’s the closest to the living room.
His bed is made, not something that’s guaranteed, so I’m pleased to see it.
His bedding is navy, worn and slightly faded but dark enough to hide the fact it’s rumpled.
He left his bedside lights on when we went out.
He always does. He does it on purpose, despite my strenuous objections, because he hates coming home to a dark room.
I’d tease him for being afraid of the dark if I didn’t know it was true.
Mat’s shirt hits the floor first. Mine follows suit.
Mat crouches to take off his shoes and socks, and while he’s there, he undoes Trouble’s boots and pulls them off.
I kick mine off, stepping on the heels of my shoes to speed up the process.
When they’re off, I feel Mat’s hands on my ankles, reaching under the hems of my jeans, pulling my socks off without me having to ask.
A chink of metal against metal draws our attention.
Trouble is undoing his belt. Mat straightens up, and we both watch, frozen, as Trouble steps out of his pants.
His skin is alabaster. Smooth and clear except for a small constellation of freckles at the base of his neck.
His hips are narrow, his legs defined. He’s wearing nothing but a snug pair of black boxer briefs.
His body is lean. Hard, masculine lines spark and contrast against the soft curves of his face.
Something about him, something about his musculature, his cockiness, and the pheromones he’s pumping in our direction is overwhelming to me.
Intoxicating. I’m drunk from it. I’m aroused in a way that makes me feel sluggish and unsteady.
It makes the room spin and my pulse beat in my lips.
Mat and I peel off our jeans and underwear.
Serious. Resolute. Silent but for the sound of twin ragged breathing.