70. Milo
SEVENTY
MILO
Ichoke on my own spit.
I cough. Splutter. Sage hands me a napkin and I hack into it for about ten seconds while my brain tries to reboot from the catastrophic error of Holden Cross, the most heterosexual man I’ve ever met, casually offering to put my dick in his mouth over a bag of carrots.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze. “What?”
“You heard me.” Holden takes out another carrot and bites it. Absolutely unbothered. “You want your dick sucked. I’m offering. I’ll fuck your ass too, if you want it.”
There’s a full second where nobody in the kitchen moves.
The refrigerator hums. Sage’s bare heel taps the cabinet once. Somewhere outside, a gull screams like it’s personally offended by my life choices.
I stare at Holden.
Holden stares back with the same expression he uses when discussing weather patterns, murder cleanup, or the proper placement of cheddar.
“You cannot say things like that,” I finally manage.
“I can. I just did.”
Sage makes a strangled noise that is definitely laughter and definitely not helping.
I point at Holden with the hand still clutching the napkin. “You. Detective Repression. Captain Fun-Police. Human Spreadsheet. You are standing in your kitchen eating baby carrots and telling me you’ll suck my dick.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You seemed upset.”
“Because my hypothetical bisexual crisis didn’t get enough follow-through, yes. That doesn’t mean I expected you to volunteer like we’re discussing who takes the garbage out.”
“You said you wanted someone to touch you because they wanted to,” Sage says, watching both of us.
“But Holden? He’s . . . ” I look from Sage to him. “You’re straight.”
“I am.”
“Like, notably straight. Famously straight. The straightest man in a house full of men who are all sleeping with the same woman.”
“Yes, Milo. I’m so straight I regularly get naked with four other men and make eye contact while we all fuck the same woman—sometimes we even use each other’s cum as lube.”
“You know,” I muse. “When you put it that way, it does sound rather gay.”
Holden’s mouth quirks. “I’ve sucked dick before. In college. I didn’t like it as much as I like eating pussy. But I didn’t hate it.”
Now Sage is full-on cackling. “I’m sorry,” she says, gasping around the laughter, “but I kind of want to see this. For science.”
Holden tilts his head at her, then at me. “You want to?”
My brain is melting out my ears. “Right now?”
He shrugs. “Unless you want to pencil it in for later.”
“I . . . ” My brain stutters.
Sage is vibrating on the counter. Her face is red. She has the apple clamped between her teeth to keep from screaming with laughter, and her legs are kicking against the cabinet doors like a kid at a puppet show.
Holden moves closer to me, crowding me as he places one hand on the counter next to my hip. “You what?”
I am suddenly aware of three things:
1. My heart is vibrating at a hummingbird frequency.
2. Holden’s forearm, which until this moment I regarded only as a blunt instrument for murder and shelving, could definitely splinter my spine if he chose to.
3. I’m rather erect.
“I . . .” I start, then realize my mouth is already open and sound is leaking out. I close it and swallow. “I did not see this coming.”
“If I do my job right, you will be,” Holden says, absolutely deadpan.
Sage is actively wheezing now, fanning herself with the apple like it contains the oxygen she needs to survive this moment.
Holden’s hand is still on the counter right next to my hip—a barrier, an invitation, something between a dare and an act of mercy.
I can’t read anything on his face except a slightly elevated pulse at the side of his throat, maybe a crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
No smirk, no teasing, just patience while he waits for me to roll the dice.
I set the pasta container down, my hand shaking a little. The feeling is new for me, which is alarming because I pride myself on being the guy who’s been there, done that, and ruined every souvenir T-shirt on the way.
“Okay,” I say. It comes out thin, which offends me, so I straighten up and try again. “I mean, my dick is interested. So, yeah. I wanna know.”
His jaw flexes but he says nothing. Instead, he steps right into my space, and the kitchen, the whole world, narrows to the six-inch vertical strip between our bodies.
His left hand lands at my waist, casual but heavy, like he’s done it a thousand times by accident and is now owning it. “You want to do this here?”
I glance at Sage, half-expecting her to intervene, possibly with a fire extinguisher. Instead she has her chin in her palm and her face says, Don’t you dare tap out, Hart. This is the show I paid for.
“Here is good,” I say, and the moment I do, my brain starts chemically spiking with a giddy, terrified energy that feels suspiciously like being fifteen again except with more muscle mass and self-loathing.
Holden drops to one knee. Not with the flourish of a man proposing.
More like a guy tying his shoe before a murder.
His hands are big, practical. He undoes my fly with zero fanfare or hesitation.
My waistband pops open, and I expect some slow-motion, careful build-up, but Holden skips straight to the point.
I grip the counter because my knees decide now is the perfect time to consider mutiny.
He takes me out without hesitation, brings my dick into the cool kitchen air, and wraps his hand around the base. His palm is calloused and hot, and the contrast is immediate and brain-melting.
And then—oh, holy God—he puts his mouth on me.
Holden is the fucking Terminator of oral sex.
I have had a lot of blow jobs in my life. I’ve had my share of wild girls, enthusiastic girls, even a girl who’d remove her teeth at parties to blow guys because it seemed like a fun dare, but this? This is mechanical excellence.
He is relentless. No teasing, no testing, no warm-up. He takes me deep on the first stroke, his hand working the base, his tongue tracing on the underside in a way that makes my knees buckle.
I grab the counter.
His other hand comes up and grips my hip, steadying me, holding me exactly where he wants me. His eyes are open. Blue and focused and completely calm, like this is a task he’s decided to excel at and failure is not an available outcome.
I’m fixated on the sight of him—Holden, on his knees, mouth stretched around my cock, looking up at me like he’s daring me to doubt his competence.
“Oh my God,” I say. Maybe I yelp it, but who’s judging?
Holden’s rhythm is perfect. Efficient. I don’t mean that in a bad way, either.
He just knows exactly how to angle his jaw for maximum depth, how to seat his tongue so it lines the underside of me, how to use a combination of suction and hand to produce textbook-grade pleasure.
It is the blow-job equivalent of a German luxury automobile: absolutely, relentlessly engineered for excellence.
I mean, I believed him when he said he’d done this before. But I didn’t believe-believe it.
I am getting close way too fast.
Sage is watching with rapt, silent attention, and the idea of her—my favorite girl, the only person I have ever truly, permanently wanted—watching me lose my mind over Holden’s mouth threatens to short out my nervous system entirely.
“You look so hot together,” she says, and her voice is warm, delighted, turned on. “Do you like having Holden on his knees for you, Milo?”
I want to tell her it’s not possible to focus on anything except Holden’s mouth. The slick heat of it. The way his throat constricts around me when he takes me deep. The grip of his hand on my hip, steady and unyielding.
My head is spinning and my body is on fire and—
She hops down off the counter, then climbs onto the island behind me, wrapping her arms around my chest and pressing her mouth to my ear.
“You look so fucking hot with your mouth hanging open, baby,” she whispers, and bites my lobe. It’s possible I float an inch off the tiles.
“Oh, fuck,” I whimper, and my hips buck involuntarily. Holden’s eyes tick up to mine, hard and diamond-bright, and without breaking contact he pushes down until my cock hits the back of his throat, then holds.
I come so hard I see the face of God. Or possibly just the skylight. But either way, I white-out for a second, hands locked on the countertop, knees trembling.
Holden’s mouth is as mercilessly thorough on the finish as it was on the approach—he doesn’t even falter at the taste, doesn’t make a show of it, just accepts my orgasm and swallows it down. His jaw works, tongue presses, hand milks me dry, and I have to slap the marble to remember which way is up.
When my brain reboots, Sage is still at my back, her body curved around me, her chin hooked over my shoulder.
She’s breathing fast. So am I. Holden stands, wipes his mouth with his thumb, then licks it clean like it’s nothing more than a Fun Dip or a slightly expensive whiskey shot.
His gaze finds Sage’s, then mine, and he does something I don’t see a lot of.
He smiles.
“Adequate?” he asks.
“Adequate?” I repeat, my voice approximately two octaves higher than normal. “He asks if it was adequate? Sage? Did you hear that? He just—and then he asked if it was adequate!”
“I heard,” Sage says, reaching past me to grab onto the front of Holden’s shirt and tug him closer. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And you once bench-pressed me.”
“That was for exercise.”
“Sure it was.” She kisses him. Hard. Deep.
She’s using Holden’s mouth, basically, when she grabs his face and slants her lips onto his, tongue in before he can even process her intent. And the way he groans, low and surprised and completely undone, makes me feel like I could drop dead happy right here in this kitchen.
Until she leans over mid-kiss and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me forward, and then it’s a three-way heat spiral.
Sage’s tongue in Holden’s mouth. The taste of me still between them. Then Sage bites my lip until I taste copper.
She twists, pulling back just enough to whisper her desire.
“I want you both together.”