21. Permission #3
Tom cackled. “If you start moaning, I’m leaving. ”
Rowan grinned over David’s head. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Unless you want it rough.”
That earned a round of laughter, but underneath the noise, something sharper pulsed—a kind of collective, nervous awareness.
David shifted in his seat, as if he’d just realized how much attention he was attracting.
I couldn’t help noticing the way he arched slightly into Rowan’s touch, or the way his breath deepened, chest rising and falling like the aftermath of a sprint.
Rowan’s hands slid lower, digging into the knots at the base of David’s neck.
David’s head fell forward, baring the nape, and for a moment I saw something almost intimate pass between them—a flash of tension that wasn’t quite brotherly.
David was straight, sure, but he wasn’t immune to pleasure.
When Rowan pressed his thumbs just right, David let out a grunt that sounded suspiciously like relief.
And—unless the angle of his hips was a trick of the shadows—he was getting hard.
I glanced away, heat creeping up my neck, but not before I caught the tiny, knowing smirk Rowan shot me over David’s shoulder.
It was a performance, but it was also real, and that contradiction made my pulse thrum.
“Alright, alright, enough,” David said finally, shrugging Rowan off with a shaky laugh. “You keep that up, I’ll owe you dinner and a movie.”
Rowan patted him on the back, all innocence. “I’ll send you my calendar.”
The air was shifting—boozy and reckless and charged, like the last few minutes before a thunderstorm. I was half-hoping for an interruption, half-terrified of losing the momentum.
David leaned forward, voice lower, almost conspiratorial. “Alright, Elias. Your turn”
“Alright, hit me.” I said.
A slow, wicked grin spread across David’s face. “I dare you to sit in Rowan’s lap for one minute. No hands. ”
Rowan’s brows shot up. “What counts as hands?”
“None of yours,” Tom cut in, gleeful. “Rowan sits, Elias sits on top, no touching. Unless you want to forfeit.”
The dare felt like a trap. My heart hammered, but I couldn’t back down—not with their eyes on me, not with Rowan looking at me like he already knew what would happen.
I slid out of my chair, trying to keep my face neutral, and Rowan spread his legs just wide enough to make room for me.
I perched on his thighs, acutely aware of every inch where our bodies pressed together—his jeans rough against my skin, his chest steady and warm at my back.
He didn’t touch me, not even a finger, but I felt the heat of his breath at my neck, the promise of tension just waiting for an excuse to break.
Tom whistled. “Someone get a timer. This is going in the history books.”
David actually counted down out loud, which only made the moment stretch. Thirty seconds in, Rowan shifted just enough to let me feel the hardness pressed beneath me—a subtle, deliberate grind that made my breath catch.
No one spoke. I felt every gaze, the weight of their curiosity and their desire to see how far we’d go.
At the minute mark, David called time, and I made a show of standing up slowly, rolling my shoulders like it was nothing. But my hands were shaking. Rowan’s lips brushed the edge of my jaw as I moved—a whisper of contact, electric and fleeting. I felt it all the way down to my toes.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of insects and the distant laughter from someone’s backyard.
Then Rowan leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead with exaggerated nonchalance.
“Alright. My turn again,” he said, his gaze locking on Tom, who tried to look unfazed but couldn’t hide the pulse jumping at his throat.
Rowan’s voice went low—almost gentle, but somehow more dangerous for it. “Tom,” he said, “I dare you to kiss someone at this table. On the lips. And not a peck—make it count.”
Tom’s bravado faltered for half a second. His gaze darted around the table, weighing the options, but everyone knew the rules—no truth, only dares, and no backing down.
He let out a breath, laughed. “You little shit,” he muttered to Rowan, but he was grinning. The air felt charged, anticipation threading through the silence like static.
Tom turned to David first, raising an eyebrow. “You up for it?”
David just shrugged, an odd mix of embarrassment and curiosity coloring his face. “Rules are rules.”
But Tom’s gaze slid past David, landing squarely on Rowan—who held his eye, unblinking, daring him. The seconds stretched, and then Tom surprised everyone by leaning in, cupping the back of Rowan’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.
It started as a joke—everyone could tell.
But then Rowan made a low sound, his hand finding Tom’s thigh, and the energy shifted.
The kiss lingered, slow and almost exploratory, just a beat too long to be brushed off as a stunt.
Elias saw Rowan press closer, saw Tom’s knuckles whiten as he held on tighter than necessary.
The tension between them was magnetic, undeniable.
Rowan parted his lips just slightly, deepening the kiss for a heartbeat.
I watched Tom’s eyes flutter closed, his shoulders tensing, and it was impossible to look away.
A flush crept up Tom’s neck, and when they finally broke apart, both of them looked winded—like they’d just surfaced from deep water.
Tom wiped his mouth, blinking, trying to laugh it off, but he was still breathless. “Jesus. That’s… not what I was expecting.”
Rowan just smiled, satisfied, but there was something raw and hungry in his eyes. “Next time, be careful what you agree to.”
Tom tried to play it cool, but I caught him shifting in his seat, discreetly adjusting himself under the table.
He wasn’t the only one—Rowan’s jeans left nothing to the imagination, the outline of his arousal obvious even in the low light.
My own body ached in response, caught between envy and anticipation.
The rest of the table was silent, everyone acutely aware that something had shifted—friendship giving way to something wilder, more dangerous. The boundaries we’d all pretended were there had become thin as tissue paper.
Rowan’s gaze found mine across the table, heat simmering beneath the surface. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, as if daring me to cross whatever lines were left.
I saw exactly what he was doing—upping the ante, teasing me, showing off for the crowd. Fine. If he wanted to play, I’d play. The idea struck me—a little reckless, a little cruel, but I was too far gone to care. My voice came out low, steady, laced with a confidence I didn’t quite feel.
“My turn,” I said, meeting Rowan’s gaze and holding it. “Rowan. I dare you to kneel in front of Tom and David and… rub your face all over their cocks. With their pants on, obviously. But really make a show of it. Think you can handle that?”
The table went dead silent, the dare hanging in the air like a live wire.
I felt every eye swing to Rowan—waiting, wanting, nervous and charged all at once.
Tom choked on his beer, staring at me like I’d lost my mind, but beneath his shock, I saw a glimmer of excitement he was trying to hide.
David’s eyes went wide, his jaw flexing, but he didn’t move away. No one said no.
Rowan’s mouth curved into the most wicked, challenging smile I’d ever seen. “Oh, you want a show?” he murmured. “You’ll get one.”
He stood, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a performance, then walked with deliberate slowness to the head of the table where Tom and David sat side by side. He dropped to his knees with a feline grace, the movement smooth and unhurried, commanding all attention.
The sight of him kneeling—head bowed, lips parted, hands resting on his thighs—sent a thrill through me, sharp as a knife.
He started with Tom, who tensed as Rowan leaned in, his face inches from Tom’s lap.
Rowan nuzzled into Tom’s crotch, his nose tracing the thick seam of denim, lips brushing the fabric with deliberate slowness.
Tom let out a shaky laugh, hands gripping the armrests of his chair as Rowan rubbed his cheek and jaw along the line of Tom’s cock, letting the shape of it press through the denim.
Rowan looked up, catching Tom’s eye, and there was challenge in the glance—daring him to push away, to admit he liked it.
Tom’s breathing went shallow, and I watched his knuckles whiten as Rowan pressed a kiss to the zipper, slow and lingering, a filthy parody of worship.
“Jesus, you’re really going for it,” Tom managed, his voice strangled.
Rowan just grinned and moved on, sliding across the deck to David.
David was even broader, thighs spread wide, trying to project nonchalance but failing utterly.
Rowan nudged his face into David’s lap, his lips skating along the rough denim, breath ghosting through the fabric.
David’s hand twitched, hovering for a second over Rowan’s head before clenching into a fist at his side.
Rowan turned his head, dragging his cheek from one side of David’s fly to the other, rubbing slow circles with his nose, lips parted like he was breathing in David’s scent.
The air felt thick, sticky with anticipation and forbidden thrill.
David let out a noise—half-groan, half-laugh—his body betraying him, cock swelling visibly against his jeans.
I couldn’t look away. Rowan’s eyes flicked to mine, hungry and triumphant, as if he knew exactly how this was affecting me.
He lingered, letting his tongue dart out to trace the metal button through the denim, then dragged his jaw along the length of David’s cock, the shape clear and defined even with the barrier of clothing.
Tom watched, breath held, face flushed, every muscle tight with tension. David let his head fall back, a helpless sound escaping him.