The Manor Has Moods #2
I looked at Bastian, who was looking back at me with warm, steady eyes and absolutely no pressure in them, though the heavy tent of his trousers told an entirely different story.
I looked at Draco, who was watching my face with the patience of a man who had decided to wait and meant it.
He knew exactly what he had interrupted, and he was offering to orchestrate the finish.
“Yes,” I said, my voice dropping to a ragged whisper.
Draco sat at the head of the kitchen table and did not move from it.
Bastian moved first. He came around behind my chair slowly, giving me every chance to clock his approach, and when he stopped behind me I could already feel his heat.
His hands came to my shoulders, working the tension there with a directness that was almost casual.
“You've been wound tight since you got here.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said.
“Mm.” His hands slid forward, over my collarbones, down the front of my shirt, and making absolutely no pretense about where they were going. “Draco's watching.”
“I know.”
“Does that help or make it worse?”
I looked across the kitchen at Draco, who had not moved, whose eyes had not left me, whose jaw had set by one degree since Bastian's hands had started moving.
“Both,” I said honestly.
Bastian made a low approving sound. “Come on then.”
I stood and turned and took his mouth and Bastian kissed back immediately and without ceremony. His cock was pressed against my hip through his trousers and I got my hand between us and palmed him and felt him groan against my mouth.
“Fuck,” he said. “Yeah.”
I walked him back to the counter and got his trousers open and Bastian let me, bracing against the counter behind him with both hands while I worked him free.
He was thick and already flushed and when I wrapped my hand around him properly his head dropped back and he exhaled through his teeth.
I went to my knees on the tile.
The floor was cold through my trousers and I didn't care. I looked up at Bastian first and then past him to Draco at the table, who had gone very, very still.
I opened my mouth and took Bastian in.
The sound he made was immediate and gratifyingly undone, a rough groan he did not bother to muffle, and his hand came into my hair with a grip that was firm and pulling and exactly right. I worked him slow, taking my time, because the slow was not for Bastian.
Bastian breathed. “That mouth.”
“Eyes up,” Draco said from the table. “Let me see your face.”
I looked up. Draco had one elbow on the table and his jaw in his hand and his eyes on mine.
I took Bastian deeper.
“Fuck,” Bastian said “Yeah, that's it. Just like that.” His hips rolled forward, testing, and when I let him he did it again with more intent. “Good fucking mouth on you—” He looked down at me, jaw loose. “Yeah, suck that cock. Come on.”
My eyes kept going back to Draco's because I could not help it, because Draco was the fixed point in the room that everything orbited around whether I wanted it to or not.
Draco's arm had moved below the table.
I could see the shift in his shoulder, the slow controlled movement he had chosen not to hide from me because he wanted me to know.
He was watching me on my knees on his kitchen floor with my mouth full of his chef's cock and he was so hard it had broken his composure by exactly one degree, and that one degree was the most satisfying thing I had seen in three weeks.
“Deeper,” Draco said.
I went deeper. Bastian's grip pulled my hair and his hips pushed forward.
“Don't stop,” Draco said, and I genuinely could not tell which of us he meant.
Bastian's hand tightened. “Just like that. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”
I pulled off him slowly and looked up at his face. He was wrecked and the sight of him like that made me work harder. I pressed my mouth to his stomach, to the soft hair there, the warm skin over the muscle of his abdomen, and felt him shiver under the contact.
“What are you—” he started.
I pushed his shirt up further and dragged my tongue across his ribs and he stopped talking. I pressed my face into the hair at the center of his chest and inhaled and felt him twitch above me.
“Don't stop.”
I licked up to his nipple and bit down gently and the sound he produced was not gentle at all.
His hand in my hair went from guiding to gripping in a single second, and I did it again, less gently, and he swore at the ceiling in a low continuous stream that was entirely sincere.
I worked the other one with my thumb while my mouth stayed busy and his hips were rolling forward looking for friction that I had moved back to deny him.
“You're killing me, you know that?”
I lifted his arm and pressed my face into the heat and the dark hair and inhaled slowly.
“Fuck,” he said.
I dragged my tongue along the tendon of his inner arm, and felt his cock jump against my chest. I got my hands back on his thighs and pushed him against the counter properly and took him in my mouth again without warning, all the way down in one slow slide, and Bastian's head hit the cabinet above him with a dull thud.
“There it is,” he breathed. “Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Take it deep, come on—” His grip found my hair again, both hands this time, framing my head. “Good fucking mouth.”
I looked at Draco.
His jaw had set so hard I could see the muscle in it from across the kitchen. His arm was moving again beneath the table with a steadiness the rest of him was not matching, and his eyes on mine were so dark the amber in them had almost gone entirely.
I took Bastian all the way down until my nose was in the hair at the base of him and my eyes watered and my throat worked around the thickness of him, and Bastian's hands went rigid in my hair and he said, brokenly, “Don't move, don't—” and then, losing the thread entirely, “look at you taking it like that, fuck, look at you.”
I pulled back slowly. Took a breath. Went back down.
“Good,” Draco said from across the kitchen.
Bastian's hips rolled forward. I let him set the pace and use the grip and push past the careful into the honest version of what he wanted.
I looked up at him, held his eyes and swallowed deliberately around him, and Bastian's whole body shook.
“Draco.” His voice had lost all its edges. “I'm—”
“Not yet,” Draco said.
Bastian made a sound that was half groan. I pulled off him again, took his cock in my hand, pressed my face to his stomach, and kissed the skin below his navel while my hand worked slow and merciless and Bastian breathed in short ragged increments above me.
“Please,” he said, to the room generally.
“Look at me,” Draco said. “Now,” and I took Bastian back into my mouth and went deep and stayed there, and Bastian came with both hands fisted in my hair.
I stayed where I was for a moment. Bastian put one arm along the counter and leaned his whole weight into it.
“Right,” he said, after a moment. “Right.”
Draco rose from the table, crossed to where I was still kneeling, and crouched in front of me. He put two fingers under my chin and lifted my face and looked at me for a long moment.
Then he put his hand in my hair.
“Open,” Draco said and when I did he fed me his fingers and I understood what he was giving me and took it.
“Good,” he said. Quiet enough that it was only for me.
Bastian had the pan cleaned up and fresh coffee poured before any of us had finished reassembling ourselves.
He set a glass of water in front of me without comment and went back to the range like a man who had seen everything and found most of it manageable.
Drake had not moved from the windowsill.
The eggs were cold. Draco refilled my coffee and his own and sat back down at the table and opened his phone like a man reviewing correspondence, and for about thirty seconds the kitchen was almost ordinary.
Then he said, without looking up, “Remy can see you today.”
“What?”
“Mateo will drive you. Coffee shop of your choosing. Two hours.” He turned his phone over and looked at me. “Unless you need more time.”
“You arranged it,” I said.
“You asked for it the other night.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He did not look up. “Don't be late back.”
The coffee shop was on a block in the West Village that had survived three decades of gentrification through sheer stubbornness, and Remy was already there when I arrived, at a table near the window with his hands around a mug and his eyes on the door.