Page 121 of Puck You Both

And me?

The want is so large it's crowding out the nerves, and the nerves are not small. I've never done this, and both of them know that, yet nobody is asking me to be anything other than exactly this nervous.

Patrick's hot breath brushes my earlobe as he says, "Up to you, Wallace. What’s it going to be?"

"Yes." The word just bursts out of me, sure all the way through.

Theo kisses me once, hard, victorious, then springs off my lap like he’s been ready for this since before the bottle. "Cushions. Supplies. Somebody take the rest of his pants off, I have priorities to arrange—"

Patrick is on his feet, already on his way to his bedroom, then back within five seconds, lube and condom in his hand, and I find myself unable to move a single muscle as I watch things happen around me. For me.

The couch cushions come down onto the rug next to where I’m sitting. We're building a habit out of ruining Patrick’s furniture arrangement, and Patrick complains a little less every time.

Moving my body takes actual mental effort, as I shed the rest of my clothes while Theo arranges himself on the cushions on his back, one heel planted, knees easy and open, a man who’s never been shy once in his life. Patrick undresses behind me with no ceremony, and when he presses against my back again, it's all skin, his cock hard against my lower back. How he stays patient carrying that around is between him and his god.

He reaches around me, puts the lube in my hand and settles at my shoulder.

I wish I could say my fingers don’t shake, but that’d be the biggest lie since I’ve last uttered the words I’m straight. The lube runs cool over my fingers. Theo watches me slick them with his lower lip caught between his teeth, and how the fuck am I supposed to focus on what I’m doing when he grabs his cock and gives himself a few slow, lazy strokes, watching me through half-lidded eyes the whole time?

His thigh is warm under my palm. I slide my hand beneath one knee, open him wider, and the last trace of a smile leaves his face on a long exhale.

The first touch of my fingertip against his hole pulls a shiver through his whole body.

I circle his rim slowly, learning him—the give, the twitch, his hips tilting up in pulse-like fashion as he chases the pressure. His breathing has gone shallow and loud. So has mine.

"Press," Patrick says at my ear. "Give him time to let you in."

Theo laughs. "Oh, I'll let him in, I've been doing my stretches since Tues—"

My finger sinks into him and the rest of the sentence dies.

Inside, I’m met with the heat I wasn’t expecting—furnace-hot around my finger, gripping in slow waves, and the plain fact of being inside him wipes out half my vocabulary. Because this is Theo, the loudest thing in two states, opening around my hand because he asked me for this.

Because out of everything available to him, he wants me.

"More," he says, voice down half an octave. "That's one finger, Wall. I'm not made of glass."

I let out a breathy chuckle. "You're made of noise."

"More."

Deeper, then. He closes his eyes and moans, and my cock aches at the sound, untouched.

Patrick's fist wraps around me from the side, one slow stroke that takes the edge off and provides nothing further. "Turn your hand," he says. "Palm up. Now curl."

I curl.

Theo's hips leave the cushions. What he shouts is French, and not the kind they teach.

"There," Patrick says, a smile buried in it. "You found it faster than I did."

"I've had coaching."

The second finger costs Theo a longer breath. I work it in beside the first and watch the stretch charge him and pay him at the same time, his forehead creasing, knees dropping wider, greed winning over everything else on his face. His hand comes down and rides my wrist, along for the motion.

"Higher— Your other higher— There. Right there. Stay there."

And then the directions stop coming, replaced by sounds with no shape in them. The bossiest mouth in Milwaukee, reduced to vowels. I did that.