Chapter 15 #2
And then, there are four hands on me, as Theo's palms slide up my stomach, mapping everything on the way, while Patrick's fingertips come down my spine slowly enough to feel every bump, while I just stand between the two of them and barely remember how to breathe.
Someone's hands find my belt, and I can’t tell whose, fighting to keep my eyes open. The buckle sounds obscene in the quiet. Leather hisses through the loops. The button gives. The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, right over how hard I am.
A single moan escapes me just as I force my eyes to focus on Theo, as he drops into a crouch and takes my jeans and briefs down in one motion. Then he looks up at me from the floor, and I moan again.
That look. I'm going to be seeing that look for the rest of my life.
My cock stands up against my stomach, flushed dark, pre-cum pooling at the tip. And they both look. Openly, taking their time about it. I can feel the looking like hands on me, heat crawling up my chest and into my ears.
"I knew it," Theo says from the floor. "I've been saying—"
"You have," Patrick agrees behind me.
"Now, someone’s lagging," Theo says, standing and stepping back like he's clearing a stage.
Patrick is still fully dressed. He looks at me and doesn't move, and it takes me a second to understand what Theo’s handing me—Patrick, ready to be unwrapped. By me.
It’s not like I haven’t undressed anyone before. It’s just never been its own thing, always in the dark, in a hurry, on the way to something. This time, it’s a separate event. And more importantly, this time, it’s a man. And out of all the men in the world—Patrick.
My exhales become shaky as I hype myself up internally.
Externally, Patrick’s shirt is coming off, and I’m only vaguely aware it’s by my hands.
I steal a glance as wide shoulders come into view, then at the thin, dark trail of hair stretching from his navel to where the rest of him is still hidden under his waistband, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m not really stealing anything.
It’s all for me.
And so I reach for the button of his pants, my hands steadier now, but not completely.
They watch me fumble it and don’t help, as the world around me sharpens.
Patrick’s zipper is louder than mine was, the skin of his abdomen scorching against my fingers, and everything feels more prominent that it ever has.
I try not to focus on anything in particular as I slowly pull his jeans and boxers down his massive thighs, and it’s not until Patrick steps out of the last of it, straightens up and takes half a step back in silent invitation that I muster the courage to look.
I swallow hard as I take in the heavy thighs, and the way all that muscle bulges under glowing skin, and finally his cock, standing thick and flushed away from his body, and my mouth goes dry.
I stopped arguing with that reaction weeks ago, when somewhere along the way wanting a man stopped being news. It must be written all over my face, and for once in my life, I let my face say it.
"Bed," Patrick says, his voice low.
Theo's already there, sprawled dead center like he grew out of the mattress, his cock hard and flushed against his belly, one knee swaying. Even lying still, he vibrates. I kneel onto the bed. My nerve shows up a second late, but it shows up.
"Touch him," Patrick says, kneeling behind me. "He's been unbearable since Thursday."
"Ohh, I love advocacy," Theo says, and he sounds delighted.
I put my hand on his chest, his heart sprinting against my touch. Or maybe it’s my own pulse I’m feeling, and it’s beginning hard to tell when I end and Theo begins as I slide my palm down his sternum, then his stomach, muscle jumping the whole way.
Behind me, Patrick's hands start moving too.
Not where I want them.
Everywhere else.
Across my chest, down my sides, along the tops of my thighs, up the inside of one, stopping an inch short.
A careful, criminal inch. His mouth opens hot against my shoulder.
His chest presses against my back, his cock a hard, insistent line against me that he does absolutely nothing about, while his hands keep moving, slow and thorough, everywhere except the one place I'm aching for them.
It takes me a minute to understand he's doing it on purpose. It takes me two to understand it's warfare.
"You're—" I start.
"Mmm," he just mutters against my shoulder, not stopping.
It’s infuriating. Also, it’s the hardest I've ever been in my life, and I need a fucking distraction before I combust.
Luckily for me, the distraction is right there, splayed on the mattress before me. Before I can overthink it, my fingers close around Theo’s cock, and for a moment, all three of us go quiet.
He's hot in my hand. That's the first thing that hits me—sheer heat filling my fist. Then the weight, more than I guessed, and the give of the skin, softer than anything, sliding over how hard he is underneath.
The angle is a mirror of the only angle I've ever known, familiar and completely backward at once.
I move my fist, slow, testing, and his whole body answers, hips lifting into the stroke, a bead of pre-cum welling at his tip and slipping down over my knuckle.
I did that.
Something in me shifts into a lower, meaner gear.
"Tighter," Patrick says against my ear, watching over my shoulder. "He likes it just this side of rude."
So I go just this side of rude.
Theo's hips come off the bed entirely.
Patrick's warmth peels away from my back, and I almost protest out loud. The nightstand drawer opens somewhere behind me, closes, and then he's back, chest against my spine where he belongs, reaching around me with a tiny, plastic bottle.
I let out a shaky exhale as I watch him uncap it.
Lube runs cold over my knuckles and Theo's cock.
Theo yelps, and the yelp turns into a moan halfway through, and then my fist starts to glide, and everything changes.
The sound of it, the speed I suddenly have.
The roll of his foreskin under my slick palm.
The way his thighs drop open like he's lost an argument and couldn't be happier about it.
I find a rhythm and hold it, and Theo starts running background commentary, an endless well of grip ratings, and coaching, and finallys.
He falls apart one word at a time until it's just vowels, while Patrick's voice stays right at my ear the whole time, low and even, taking him apart from a distance, and taking me apart in the process.
"Watch his stomach. He tightens up there first." He runs the back of his fingers across my own stomach, his touch feather-light, almost phantom. "Slower now. Make him earn it."
He's teaching me Theo, piece by piece, and Theo can hear it happening, and swears at us both, and gets louder anyway.
I hold on to every word. I'm going to use all of it.
Theo's cock jerks in my fist and his abs flex, exactly where I was told to look.
"Let go now," Patrick says.
I let go, and Theo’s expression changes from blissed-out focus to outrage inside a single second.
"You—" He points at me, then at Patrick, wild-eyed, damp, and magnificent. "You're colluding."
"Your turn," Patrick says, unmoved. "Past due, by my count."
It takes real mental strength to stop myself from shouting out one of Theo’s finallys as Patrick lays me back into the pillows with one hand flat on my chest. I let him do it. I let myself be arranged, my head landing exactly where he decided it should.
Theo is up on his knees beside me before the mattress settles, aggrieved, and hard, and instantly forgiving, his hand hovering over my stomach. "May I?"
The concept of Theo asking permission rings foreign, until I remember—there are rules and they apply to Theo too. Somehow that, more than anything Patrick said in the living room, is what makes them real.
"Yes." It comes out rough, already wrecked.
His fingers close around my cock, and my world tilts in an instant.
No other man's hand. Ever.
It was never a rule, something I had consciously decided. It was just a fact, unexamined my whole life, like being right-handed. That fact ends here, under Theo's fingers, warm, curious, and wrong in every dimension.
Wrong pressure. Wrong rhythm. Wrong calluses.
And every single wrong is doing more for me than years of right.
"Okay," he says, stroking slow, eyes moving between my face and my cock like he can't pick a favorite. "First observation. You're so fucking hot like this. Second observation—" his thumb crosses the head of my cock, and my hips buck without permission "—found the dial."
A half-chuckle, half-moan escapes me. "Theo..."
Patrick stretches out along my other side, takes my jaw in one hand, turns my face, and kisses me, deep and slow, tongue pushing in like it belongs, completely out of tempo with what Theo's hand is doing, and the two rhythms refuse to line up, and I quit trying to keep track of either one.
Lube arrives, cold, then warm. Theo's fist slicks and tightens and settles into a pace designed to ruin me. Patrick's free hand crosses my chest, finds my nipple, and my back arches up into a body that isn't done kissing me yet.
I lose track of time. There's a mouth on mine and a fist on my cock and a running review being conducted somewhere above me in a French accent, and I can't hold them apart as three separate things anymore.
I'm close. I’m so fucking close my body must be emitting some kind of signal, because Theo catches on before I fully do, his hand slowing down to half the speed.
"Nope," he says, fond and merciless. "Not yet. You edged me. This is only fair."
The sound I make against Patrick's mouth is anything but dignified, and Patrick swallows it and keeps kissing me until I forget everything I was about to say.
My hands need a job, right now, or I'm going to start begging. Begging isn't off the table, it's just not Plan A.
Patrick's cock is right there, so I reach over, blindly, and wrap my fist around his cock mid-kiss, and this time I'm the one swallowing the sound.