Page 32 of Puck You Both

Theo reaches for him, buries his fingers in that neat dark hair, and wrecks it. For exactly one stroke, Patrick allows it. Then he catches Theo's wrist, pulls the hand free without breaking rhythm, and presses it back onto the desk.

And Theo leaves it there.

Theodore Moreau, who argues with referees for fun, puts his hand back down like he was asked nicely, fingers curling around the desk edge until his knuckles pale, and my whole spine lights up. Not at the mouth, not at the cock. At the obedience. At how Patrick collects it without even opening his eyes.

Filed under later. Filed under never.

"You're so good at this it's actually rude," Theo pants. "All—fuck—all smug, you absolute me—"

Patrick takes him down his throat.

All the way. Nose pressed against the skin at Theo's base, throat flexing around him, holding. The insult dies and morphs into a whiny moan while his thighs shake against the denim trapping them.

My knees consider the floor.

A thought slides in under everything: what would that feel like. That throat. That patience, kneeling in front of—

The fear arrives in an instant. Ice, straight down my back. I slam something shut on the thought, and it doesn't matter, because the image is already inside with the rest of tonight's contraband, and my cock throbs against my zipper anyway.

My palm closes over it.

One second the hand was performing innocence on my thigh, the next it's pressed flat against the denim, and the first slow stroke drags the seam over the head of my cock and my vision whitens at the edges. I'm leaking. I can feel the wet underneath, warm under my thumb. In a doorway, over this. A breath punches out of me, too loud.

Patrick pauses.

Every cell in my body turns to concrete. Ten feet away, his mouth goes still on Theo's cock, eyes closed. Then his tongue circles the head and he sinks back down, and I will never know whether he heard me.

"Do that again," Theo demands, voice shredded. "The throat thing. Please, I'll be so quiet. I'll never talk again in my life—"

A huff from Patrick.

Amusement, delivered around a cock.

He does it again.

Theo's whimper is high and helpless, and it goes straight through me and straight down, and my hand is matching Patrick's pace now. I don't know when that started. Up when he lifts. Down when he sinks. Pleasure builds low and hot at the base of my cock with every pass, and I'm not stopping. I've checked. I'm not stopping.

Patrick's free hand slides down to cup Theo's balls, rolling them slow, and Theo's back arches.

"That. More of that. I take back every bad thing I've ever said about Wisconsin."

Then, the rhythm turns cruel. Patrick slows, lets Theo's cock slide out until just the head is caught behind his lips, and stops. Holds him there. Theo tries to thrust and gets nowhere; the fist at his base and the palm on his hip keep him bracketed, and all he can manage is a shallow, desperate grind that is clearly nowhere near enough.

"Please." Ruined. "Patrick, I swear to god, I'll do anything. I'll drive the speed limit, please—"

That's when Theo's eyes open.

Down at Patrick first. Then his head rolls, loose and delirious, and his gaze drifts across the room to the doorway.

To me.

Everything stops. My hand. My lungs. Ten feet of lamplight between us, and Theo Moreau is looking directly into my eyes with his cock in Patrick's mouth. I brace for the yell. For the scramble.

He doesn't blink.

His gaze slides down instead. Unhurried. Over my chest, down to where my hand is flattened against the front of my jeans, and stays there while heat crawls up my neck. One second. Two. When his eyes come back to mine, his lips are parted, and under all that wreckage a grin is assembling itself, slow and filthy.

Then, still holding my eyes, he arches his back so hard it shouldn’t be possible.