Chapter 35 Will
Will
There’s a single knock at the door. One solid tap.
Firm and unapologetic. Mat sits bolt-upright and then immediately eases himself down again in a failed effort to look like a guy who has a smattering of chill.
His breathing is skittish, and I can almost see his heart beating out of his chest. Mine’s beating too.
Hard and unsteady, clenching uncomfortably, though I will it not to.
“D’you want to get it?” I offer.
He leaps up and races to the door, throwing me a quick, panicked look before he opens it.
“You’ll be okay,” I tell him, stepping back to give him space but also so I can get a better vantage to take in the scene.
He wipes the palms of his hands on his jeans, and he smiles way, way too big.
I’m standing to the side, so I can only see a single dimple, but from how deep it is, I know the other has dipped in too.
This is no fake smile. This is as true and real as it gets.
He looks at me, and his Adam’s apple rides up a little and then quickly bobs down.
I hear a shaky breath, and for a moment, I can’t tell if it comes from him or me.
The door opens. Trouble stands on our doorstep, owning the space.
He takes up way more room than seems reasonable for someone of his stature.
He has half his hair up in a messy bun and the other half down.
It cascades over his shoulders like glossy molasses.
He’s wearing jeans and a tight white tank, and not a smidgen of makeup.
His jaw is clamped shut, making muscle bulge and cutting harsh lines into the angles of his beautiful face.
He has his hands deep in his pockets and his biceps are shadowed, protruding in a way that’s borderline indecent.
He looks different from how he looked the other times we’ve seen him.
Very different. Stripped down. Pared back.
It’s a way more masculine look than we’ve seen on him before.
It’s unexpected, not least because the mere sight of him like this has my dick aching.
I don’t mean uncomfortable. I don’t mean a little distracting.
I mean aching. Throbbing. Pulsing with arousal that rips through me so hard, I have a hard time remembering the word one usually uses to greet someone.
His eyes crinkle at the corners and one side of his mouth lilts up. It’s one of those smiles that hits like a solid punch to the gut.
“Miss me?” he asks.
“Fuck yeah.”
Mat’s voice is little more than a groan.
He has his arms around Trouble instantly, dragging him into the apartment and kicking the door shut behind him with a hollow thud.
His hands are on his face. Big hands, sweet face.
He’s touching him as if he can’t see. As if touch is all he has.
He traces light lines along Trouble’s lips and jawline.
His breathing is so heavy and low that it reverberates down our narrow hallway, leaving me no choice but to breathe his chaos in.
He hesitates for a moment before letting out a pained little sigh and gently tilting Trouble’s face toward me.
Even though part of me thinks I should say, “After you,” I don’t.
I can’t. I take what he’s offering with no hesitation.
I cover Trouble’s lips with mine and thrust my tongue deep into his mouth.
His lips part and he lets me in. This time I’m the one who’s fast and overenthusiastic.
I don’t care, though, because Trouble’s mouth is heaven.
Soft and so warm. If I close my eyes, I almost feel safe.
His tongue rises to find mine, and they snake together.
I feel Mat’s eyes on us. They’re burning.
I can feel his hand on me too. At first, it’s on my shoulder, a heavy, casual hold, the same way he’s touched me countless times before, but then he lets his hand drop.
It trails down my spine. Slowly. I feel him trace every one of my vertebrae, touching me the way he just touched Trouble’s face.
Touching me as if he’s blind. As if he has no sight and has to rely on touch alone.
Even though my thirst is far from quenched, I pull back and offer Mat Trouble’s mouth the same way he offered it to me.
He takes it the way I did. Urgent and fast. I’m so close that I can see everything.
Soft lips. Mat’s mouth. Trouble’s mouth.
A wet glint of tongues as they consume each other.
I watch them and wait. I wait as long as I can.
I wait until lust has seeped out of me and pooled at my feet.
Until the floor and the planet are made up of nothing but dark desire that swirls thickly around us.
It solidifies gradually, setting like concrete.
I’m immobile. Trapped. Weighed down by the sight and the sound and the smell of the two men before me.
I run my hands up their arms, across their shoulders, and up their necks, then I dip my face down, thrusting my tongue into their kiss.
Mat tilts his head and, with a tiny smile, offers me the space I need to join in.
Things were blurry before, but now it goes full-on hazy.
Everything’s out of focus. Clothes come off and land on the floor, bodies are slammed against the wall.
His body. His body. Mine. None of us are gentle.
All of us are winded. We grope hard, and we bite.
It’s not careful and considered like it was the previous times, and yet somehow, we still manage to work in perfect concert with each other.
We play each other like instruments. Every touch makes music.
The pitch is low. The melody is sweet, and the harmony is haunting.
It builds slowly but quickly reaches a crescendo.
It spins us and moves us together in time with each other.
The rhythm is steady like a drum. A solid, predictable one-two beat.
Doo-doof
Doo-doof
A heartbeat.
His heart. His heart. Mine.
All of them racing. All of them pounding.
There’s skin and muscle everywhere. Ass cheeks clench and hips thrust relentlessly. Everything tastes salty and male. There are dicks everywhere. Muscle and blood infused with desire.
The music we’re making has lyrics set in a language all of us speak fluently but none of us ever learned. The words are low hisses and guttural moans. They all mean the same thing. More. More. More. The bedroom floor starts to vibrate. The headboard slams into the wall again and again.
The music isn’t only in Trouble. It’s not only part of him now.
It’s in Mat and me too. It moves through us with zero resistance.
It whips us this way and that. Neither of us fights it.
We open our arms and expose our throats in surrender.
We give ourselves over to it, and when it’s done, we’ve shaken the foundations of the whole goddamn building.
We’re on the floor in Mat’s room by the time the room falls silent.
“Waz name?” I slur.
I’ve yet to revert back to English, and Mat can tell. “What’s your real name, Trouble?” he interprets for me.
Trouble takes a moment to regain his faculties, and when he does, he says, “If you don’t know I’m Trouble, you don’t know me at all.”
“Tell us.” I’d like to look at him when I say it. To show him how much I mean it. But I’m flat on my back, and I can’t imagine being able to move voluntarily anytime soon. “Tell us about yourself. Who are you? What do you like.”
“I, uh…” His voice wavers and fades to nothing. “I like sundried tomatoes.”
“Sundried tomatoes?” Mat giggles helplessly as he reaches out to stroke Trouble’s chest, but he can’t make it, and his arm falls listlessly at his side. “My God, Trouble, you’re terrible at this.”
“We’ll teach you again,” I say, “but you better start paying attention, Pretty Boy. You gotta give us something real. Like this: Mattie likes being around lots of people. He gets a high from their vibe. It energizes him or something. He likes meeting new people, and he loves it when he’s in a crowd.
He likes talking and knowing people are listening. ”
“Will likes small groups, three or four people. Five tops. He takes a long time to get to know someone, but once they’re in, they’re in for life. He likes people too, but he needs time on his own to recharge, or he gets exhausted as hell.”
“Do the two of you go out and get drunk and then say that you love each other?” asks Trouble.
“On what planet is that telling us something about you?” Mat asks earnestly. Before Trouble has time to clarify or defend himself, Mat adds, “But for your information, I tell Will I love him all the time. I don’t need to be drunk to do it.”
“And what about you? Do you say it back?”
“He doesn’t need to…” says Mat.
“Why not?”
“…‘cause he knows I do,” I finish for him.
Trouble lies back with his eyes closed and makes a soft, whimpering sound. “Do you guys make out when I’m not here? Or do you jerk off together? Oh, please, God, let there be jerking off.”
I manage to find a tiny reserve of strength and use it to push myself up onto one elbow so I can look down at Trouble in a way I hope is ominous as fuck. “Give us something good, Trouble, or we won’t answer that.”
He looks up at the ceiling for a long time, his eyes narrowed and his gaze intense. I glance at Mat, and I know he thinks Trouble is overthinking. I agree. The thing that makes this game good is when you just spill your guts and see what comes out.
“I like True Blood.”
Jesus. What now?
“What’s true blood, a-and what do you do with the blood?” asks Mat nervously.
Trouble starts laughing. It’s a soft, sweet cackle, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t wicked. “God, you should see your faces. It’s a TV program. A vampire, supernatural-type series. A cult series. Jessie always says I’ve based at least half of my personality on that show.”
“Why’d you like it so much?” I ask.