Chapter 5
The shower is too small for three grown men, which means Wyatt crowds in against my front while Jai works shampoo into my hair from behind, and nobody complains about the lack of personal space because personal space is the last thing any of us wants right now.
Wyatt’s cock is hard against my stomach, thick and warm through the steam, and his mouth is on my neck, sucking a mark that’ll be visible above my collar for days.
Jai’s fingers massage my scalp with a tenderness that doesn’t match the filthy things he’s whispering into my ear: how pretty I looked taking Wyatt’s cock yesterday, how my ass is still pink and swollen, how he’s going to fuck me so deep later I’ll feel it in my throat.
I cum with Wyatt’s hand wrapped around my cock and Jai’s teeth on my shoulder, water sluicing over the three of us, my knees buckling between them. The orgasm rips through me without warning, my cum striping Wyatt’s fist and thigh, and Wyatt holds me up with one arm around my waist while I shake.
“We should probably eat something that isn’t each other,” Jai says, reaching past me for the body wash. “I’m ordering room service the second we’re dry.”
We dry off with the ship’s thin towels, none of us bothering with clothes.
My ass is tender, a dull ache that flares when I move certain ways, a constant reminder of the past two days.
Wyatt’s handprint is still visible on my right cheek, faint but there, a pink outline against my freckled skin.
I catch myself staring at it in the mirror while Jai brushes his teeth, and the sight of it, their mark on me, sends a pulse of heat through my cock that has nothing to do with the orgasm I just had.
Back in the room, the king bed is a disaster zone of rumpled sheets and dried cum stains we’ve stopped pretending to care about.
Wyatt flops onto his back, arms spread, his cock already half-hard again against his thigh.
Jai grabs the remote and finds a baseball game, Mets something, Dodgers something, the names a blur.
He turns the volume low. The sound of the crowd becomes background noise, a distant white wash beneath the heavier sound of our breathing.
“Come here,” Wyatt says, patting the mattress between them.
I crawl onto the bed and settle on my stomach between them, my face turned toward the TV, my ass pointed at the ceiling because that’s where their hands keep landing.
Wyatt’s palm cups my right cheek, warm and heavy, his thumb tracing idle circles near the crease where my ass meets my thigh.
Jai’s fingers are lighter, more deliberate, tracing the curve of my left cheek, dipping lower, brushing the rim of my hole with a touch so light it might be accidental.
Except nothing Jai does is accidental.
“This is better,” Wyatt says. “Way better than the brunch fight. Remember the brunch fight? Your mom threw champagne at me.”
“I remember,” I say. The memory should be embarrassing. It isn’t. It feels like something that happened to different people, in a different life, before this room became what it is.
“Brunch fight was amateur hour,” Jai says. His finger circles my hole, not pushing in, just tracing the tight ring of muscle with feather-light pressure. My body responds before my brain can catch up: my hole clenches, then relaxes, seeking more contact. “This is the professional league.”
Wyatt’s hand connects with my ass in a light slap, the sound crisp in the warm room. The sting blooms, bright and familiar, and my cock twitches against the mattress. “Professional fuckhole league. Cade’s the MVP.”
On the TV, someone hits a home run. The crowd roars. None of us are watching.
Jai’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches for it without moving his other hand, which keeps tracing patterns on my ass. His fingers stroke my skin while the phone buzzes against the wood, and I shiver.
“We hit Nassau in four days,” he says, scrolling. “There’s a course. Really good one, actually. Royal Blue. Jack Nicklaus design.”
“You gonna play?” Wyatt asks.
Jai sets the phone down. His finger stops circling. For a second, he’s quiet. “Maybe. Yeah. I should. I haven’t touched a club in two weeks and my coach is going to fucking murder me if I show up rusty.”
“Your coach,” Wyatt says. “The semi-pro dream guy.”
“Or teaching. I don’t know.” Jai’s hand returns to my ass, but the touch has changed, slower, less playful.
“My mom thinks I should model. Or act. Something where people look at me. Golf is… it’s not that.
It’s the one thing that’s mine. But it’s also the one thing where I don’t know if I’m actually good enough, or if I just look good doing it, and everyone’s too nice to tell me the difference. ”
The honesty catches me off guard. Jai doesn’t do vulnerability, not like this, not unprompted, not with the TV on and his fingers still tracing my asshole like he’s drawing maps on my skin. I turn my head to look at him, and his eyes are on the ceiling, his jaw tight in a way I haven’t seen before.
“That’s really cool,” I say. The words come out softer than I mean them to. “The golf thing. Not the modeling thing. The golf thing is actually cool.”
Jai’s eyes find mine and hold, surprise flickering there, or maybe the wariness of someone who’s used to being humored. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I push myself up on my elbows, turning more fully toward him.
Wyatt’s hand stays on my ass, a warm, grounding weight.
“My parents and my sisters were wrong about you guys. About both of you. The whole doctor-or-bust thing… it’s bullshit.
The world needs people who do every kind of different skill.
All kinds of intelligence are valuable. Not just the kind that gets you into med school. ”
Wyatt’s hand squeezes my ass, appreciative. “Preach, math boy.”
“I’m serious.” I am. The conviction rises from somewhere deep, a place I haven’t accessed in conversation with anyone, ever.
“There’s spatial intelligence, like, the way you see angles and trajectories, Jai, that’s a thing.
And kinesthetic intelligence, body awareness, which Wyatt has in spades.
And emotional intelligence, which is… you know, reading people, understanding what they need even when they don’t say it. ”
Wyatt nods. His blue eyes are steady on mine, and the dimple in his cheek appears, not the full grin, something quieter. “What about fucktelligence?”
The word lands like a grenade. My face goes hot, the blush spreading from my ears down my neck, and Wyatt’s hand connects with my ass in a sharp, stinging slap that makes me jolt.
“Fucktelligence,” he continues, his voice dropping into that register that turns my insides to liquid. “Like, I’m excellent at fucking. Top of my class. Valedictorian of the fuck department.”
Jai laughs, low and warm, and presses a finger to my hole again, this time with purpose. One fingertip presses against the rim, not pushing in, just resting there, a promise. “He’s not wrong. The man has a PhD in dick. I’d say I’m more of a master’s candidate myself, but the potential is there.”
“Potential,” Wyatt snorts. “Your cock is longer than my forearm. That’s not potential, that’s a weapon.”
“I’m versatile,” Jai says. His finger circles my hole, slick now.
He must have reached for the lube on the nightstand without me noticing.
The wet pressure is deliberate, teasing, and my hips push back without permission.
“Academic fucktelligence versus practical fucktelligence. We should write a paper.”
“Or make a porn,” Wyatt says. He’s fully hard now, his cock hot against my hip where I’m pressed between them. “The Fucktelligence Study. Starring us. I’d watch that shit.”
“Would you?” Jai asks. His finger pushes in, just the tip, just enough to make my breath catch. “Or would you rather just use our fucktelligence to make our needy slut boy happy?”
Our. The word echoes. Our needy slut boy.
My cock is rock hard against the mattress, leaking pre-cum onto the sheets, and my face is burning so hot the freckles are standing out across my nose.
They’re joking. They have to be joking. This is banter, cruise sex talk, the kind of thing that evaporates the second we dock in Miami.
But the ten percent of me that isn’t sure, the part that heard our and felt light with hope, that part is screaming.
Wyatt’s hand lands on my ass again, harder this time, the slap ringing through the room. “I think our slut boy has an opinion. Don’t you, Cade?”
I bury my face in the pillow. My voice comes out muffled, wrecked. “Please.”
“Please what?” Jai’s finger pushes deeper, a slow inch that has me gasping. My hole is still tender from yesterday, the stretch immediate and perfect, and my cock throbs against the mattress. “Use your words, pretty boy. Tell us what you want.”
I turn my head and look at them. Wyatt on my right, his blue eyes dark with want, his cock thick and hard against his stomach. Jai on my left, his finger buried in my ass to the first knuckle, his expression caught between amusement and hunger.
“I want to be fucked,” I say. The words come out thin, cracked.
“Please. I need it. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.
All night. I woke up hard thinking about your cocks and I can’t—I can’t stop thinking about it, and I just…
please. Please fuck me. I’m your slut. I’m your fuckhole.
That’s all I am right now. That’s all I want to be. ”
My voice breaks on the last word. Something wet tracks from the corner of my eye, thinner than a tear, more desperate, and I don’t wipe it away. Let them see. Let them see exactly what they’ve done to me.
Wyatt slides a hand into my hair, his fingers threading through the short strands, tugging gently, and the touch goes straight to my cock. “Who do you want, Cade? My cock or his?”