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He’d become the monster he’d always sworn to defeat. The unapologetic cockblocker.
Not that he could have done much about it if they’d decided to ignore him and have wild sex on the kitchen table. Until this last week, all he’d been up for was sleeping and coughing up half a lung. And even though he was back on solid foods, they still wanted him to drink that damned broth. Worse, he was actually starting to like the stuff. Especially the way Fiona made it. Or maybe it was the way she’d smile at him whenever he drank it without complaining like a grumpy toddler.
Jesus, living with her had made it hard to focus on anything else. Hard being the word of the day. His balls couldn’t get any bluer. He had a feeling Thoreau was in the same state, if his nightly throw-pillow placement was anything to go by. Their quiet evenings watching home-improvement shows were getting hotter than the porn he used to get off to, back when he had privacy and his bedroom hadn’t taken over by Noah’s nurse.
Fuck, he didn’t want to think about that when he was this ready to pop. He’d jumped in the shower right after Fiona left for the day. She’d perched her sweet ass on his lap to kiss him goodbye, and things had escalated quickly. Her moan when he copped a quick feel, while Thoreau was literally steps away in the kitchen, almost had him coming in his shorts.
He’d wanted to lift her skirt and have her ride him right there. He’d wanted to tug down that lace-scalloped tank she loved to wear to show off her tattoos and suck on her hard nipples until she was sobbing his name.
He’d wanted Thoreau to watch.
God, that was twisted.
Hot, firecracker. The word is hot.
She’d love it, he knew. Fiona had a thing for making out in public places. She also liked it a little rough, and she loved it when Wyatt took control.
What would Thoreau think if he saw Fiona bend over so Wyatt could spank her ass? Would he give him that disapproving look he got when Wyatt ate the last of his favorite cereal? Or one of the strange glances he’d sent his way when Thoreau thought he wasn’t looking? The ones Wyatt couldn’t define. The ones that made him feel naked.
He stroked himself harder, letting another scene play out in his head. That night last week when they thought he was asleep on the couch and Fiona was on the loveseat with Thoreau, a book in her hands and a crocheted blanket over her lap.
Thoreau had been whispering in her ear, his eyes on the flat screen, but Wyatt noticed when his hand disappeared under the blanket. Thoreau had bitten his lower lip at the same time Fiona swallowed a quiet gasp, and Wyatt had known what they were doing.
He’d lain there watching their not-so-covert session, listening to Fiona’s breath coming faster and harder, and he hadn’t done anything to stop it. The sight of Thoreau’s arm flexing as he fucked her with his fingers in the darkened living had made Wyatt’s own hand had curl under his pillow as he savored the memory of how she felt, wet and tight, around his fingers.
He remembered biting his tongue when he saw how close she was. He wanted to know if Thoreau was rubbing her clit the way she needed it rubbed. If he’d gotten a second finger inside so she could feel stretched. Claimed.
When her book dropped and she buried her face in his neck, her legs bending so the blanket was only partially concealing them, he could have sworn Thoreau was looking at him. Staring at him as his hand worked so fast there could be no mistaking what he was doing.
Wyatt hadn’t known if it was his imagination or a challenge, but he still let it happen.
He watched it happen. Watched her body bucking, riding his hand. Listened to their rough breath and the wet sounds of fucking so arousing his hips pumped against the couch before he could stop himself.
Fiona’s muffled moans as she came had been worth the trouble of feigning sleeping. Seeing Thoreau grimace and shake his head a few minutes later, after she’d recovered from her climax and tried to return the favor, was nearly as satisfying.
Cockblocker.
After they went to bed, Wyatt had taken a shower just like this one, and wondered why he wasn’t storming out, seething with jealousy. Wondered what would have happened if he’d joined them—just gone over there, gotten on his knees and sucked on her clit while Thoreau fingered her to climax.
Somehow, some part of him knew that’s what Thoreau was waiting for.
Him.
“Fuck.” He grunted, trying to hold back his loud groan as he came in hot spurts into the shower’s spray. Yes. God, yes. Damn, that was good.
