Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  ***

  Somehow we find ourselves on the living room sofa, eating waffles with chocolate syrup and—you guessed it—bananas. Looks like Joel has been putting that cookbook to good use.

  His banana, too. Oh God…

  I’m exhausted. It’s all the super badass sex. How’s a girl to think straight after that? DP, baby. Double penetration.

  Badass.

  God, my life is turning into a serial. Into the serial. Only on steroids.

  Sandwiched between my super boys who are watching a wrestling match on TV, I feel warm and drowsy and comfortable and…cherished. I have my head on Joel’s lap and my feet on Jethro’s, and I listen to them talk.

  They’re still naked. Joel’s muscular thigh is dusted with fine hairs. I trail my hand to his knee, and he twitches.

  I grin.

  My boys have been devouring stacks of waffles and commenting on the match with their mouths full. Is it weird that I find that cute?

  It is weird. God.

  And I can’t keep from stroking Joel’s knee, the muscles shifting under my hand. My eyes are closing. Figures that I’d fall asleep with my fantasy boyfriends, while they’re wide awake and could probably go for round two… or is it three?

  Could my ass get any more pounding? Will I be able to walk tomorrow? Should I buy a butt plug? Should I wander around wearing it, is that a thing when you have two boyfriends?

  Damn, I hate how philosophical I get when I’m tired.

  And should I ask them if they are my boyfriends now? Does taking it in the ass constitute the foundation of a steady relationship? Should I wait until Joel also taps my ass before I ask? Should we do everything twice, in reversed positions?

  God, I’m wiped out. But I like Joel’s hand rubbing my back, and Jethro massaging my ankles and feet. Mmmm…

  “Love that,” I mumble. “Love you, guys. What we did earlier… oh man.”

  Jethro chuckles. “She’s fucking out of it.”

  “We fucked you senseless, didn’t we, girl?” Joel runs his fingers through my hair and I purr. “You liked it, though.”

  I nod, although it wasn’t a question. I thought it was obvious. Weren’t my invocations of God, Joel and Jet clear hints? Or the way I gripped their cocks inside me, almost crushing them to pulp as I came?

  Come on.

  “I didn’t hurt you?” Jethro asks, and warmth seeps into my face—and my heart.

  “You’d never hurt me,” I tell him and twist around, trying to see his face. His eyes are stormy as he hauls me up until I’m seated between them, and I plop my heavy head on his shoulder. “Neither of you would, or could. I wanted this, with both of you. Have wanted you for so long.”

  “You’ve said that before.” Joel twines a lock of my hair around his fist, and sniffs it. “How long, then? You make it sound like a long time.”

  He just sniffed my hair. He’s so cute…

  “Years,” I whisper. “Many years. Too damn long. I…”

  A hush falls on the room. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. The noise from the TV is suddenly too loud.

  What have I said?

  Oh holy shit. What have I done? Shitshitshit.

  I scramble off the sofa, dodging their hands reaching for me, knowing that if they catch me, I’ll have to stay and explain. Tell them about my years-long crush on them. My fantasies with them.

  God, the blog. No, I’m never telling them about that.

  Muttering a lame excuse about having to check on my roommate, I grab my clothes, jump into them and run out of their apartment.

  As I climb into an Uber and head home, I bury my face in my hands and blink back tears. Maybe I shouldn’t have run. I mean, what’s wrong with a crush, huh?

  I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want to stop this… whatever it is we’re having together. The sex. The hugs. The banana dinners. The sweet smiles on Jethro’s face, the sexy grins on Joel’s.

  I want these boys. I care for them. I miss them already, and I’ve only been away from them ten minutes.

  Jeez, I don’t know what to do next. I feel like my heart is breaking. Someone please shoot me?

  ***

  When I arrive home, Brylee isn’t there. It annoys me, because I wanted to pour my heart out to her. What sort of friend is she, not to wait for me alone every night in case I decide to abandon my boys and come sobbing at her feet, huh?

  Some people…

  Should I call my boys? Explain? Apologize, blame everything on a misunderstanding? Sex intoxication? I bet that exists.

  There’s only one problem with this plan: it looks like I forgot my cell phone at their place, and I don’t know their phone numbers by heart.

  I know, right? When it rains, it pours.

  But maybe it’s for the best? Note the question mark. Like, I should calm down and think what to do before I rush into any panicky actions?

  God knows. I curl up on the sofa instead and reluctantly turn on my laptop. Strange how something that used to define my life, to take up most of my free time, doesn’t feel normal anymore. Doesn’t feel real.

  I log in and check my blog, planning to upload first my reviews of a load of amazing gay romances I gorged on recently—books by Harper Fox, Josh Lanyon, Santino Hassel and Andrea Speed—and I freeze.

  Holy guacamole! My blog has exploded.

  Well, not literally, but the sheer amount of comments people have left when I wasn’t looking is staggering. Open-mouthed, momentarily distracted from my doubts and panic, I scroll through them, trying to figure out what happened here.

  “Please don’t stop the serial!” many comments read. “Bring back J&J. You stopped at the best part.”

  Others are asking if I’m okay, if something happened to me.

  They’re right. I haven’t missed an installment of my serial in years. Guess I really don’t have a life, huh. Not outside of my blog, that is.

  Damn.

  Connie’s name pops up on chat. “You okay, Candix? You were gone for a while there.”

  “I’m fine,” I type back, add a smiley. “Just busy.”

  “Busy writing the next chapter of the J&J story, I hope!” Dancing emojis. “Can’t wait to see if J-Two will top J-One after all.”

  Say what? I stare at her words. Had I left the story at such a point? J-Two is Jethro, and Jethro was about to fuck Joel? Really?

  In the serial, Jethro is aggressive. Loud. Touchy-feely.

  And J-One, that is, Joel, is more reserved, quieter, but he’s also the one who keeps pushing Jethro to sleep with him, and me, to try new things, new positions.

  But… that’s not how they are.

  I mean, sure Jethro likes to throw his arm over Joel’s shoulders, especially when someone is taking a photo, grinning like a maniac—but in real life, he’s the quiet one. He’s the artist who draws comics and struggles with reading. The one who holds my hand when we walk in the street.

  And Joel likes to be in control. He also likes books. And history. And taking care of Jethro. Of both of us.

  “You’re gone again?” Fist-shaking emoji. “Candy?”

  “Here.” After a moment, I add a tongue-sticking emoji. “Thinking.”

  “That why you vanished? What happened with the fantasy boyfriends?”

  That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? They aren’t a fantasy anymore.

  They also aren’t my boyfriends. Are they?

  “They’re well.” Evasive maneuvers in process. “Awesome.”

  “What did you do?”

  Uh oh. Failure in my evasive maneuvers. “Nothing.”

  “You had sex with them.”

  Did I mention before that Connie knows me better than I know myself? Well, I lied. She has taken over my brain and is apparently conducting experiments. She can read my thoughts and rewind my memories for better viewing.

  What I did with the boys tonight… their cocks pounding into me… their hands all over me… holy shit. My pussy—and my ass—twinge both in pain and p
leasure, and heat spreads in my belly.

  “You did. You let both of them fuck you, didn’t you?”

  See? Told you.

  “At the same time? Candy, answer me.”

  Why? She already knows everything. I push away from the laptop, in case the flames licking my face set it on fire.

  “Candace Riley. Get your fingers on the keyboard and answer me, dammit.” Angry emojis line the screen. “You can’t leave your bestie out of the loop!”

  No. I can’t. Can’t confirm it, in case I jinx it and never see the boys again.

  Who am I kidding? I already jinxed it.

  “I ran away,” I type slowly, and the words I’m typing make no sense to me.

  What have I done?

  “Ran away? Why? From where? When?”

  “From them. Tonight.”

  “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?”

  I stare at her question. Because I’m stupid? Because I was spooked—by what I revealed, by the intensity of my feelings, by the amazing sex?

  Because this is so much more than I expected.

  “Candy.” Emojis going crazy, drinking bottles of wine, dancing, weeping. “You there?”

  “I screwed up,” I type, my eyes filling up again. Hot tears slip down my cheeks. “We had sex. Awesome sex. And then I let it slip that I’ve wanted them both for years. And then I ran.”

  Quiet from the other side.

  I wipe at my eyes angrily. Nobody died. Life goes on. Maybe I didn’t screw up that badly. Tomorrow I will drive by, talk to them.

  “Candix, you have to tell them the truth,” Connie writes.

  I shake my head although she can’t see me. “No way.”

  “Are you with them now? As in a relationship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you want to be, be honest, okay? I’m telling you this from experience. Never let lies sit between you. They fester.”

  I sniffle. I can, since nobody is here to hear me. Also, I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.

  Okay, that was gross.

  “What should I do, Connie?”

  “Tell them. Nothing to be ashamed of. They are handsome guys. So what if you’ve wanted them all along? Isn’t that a stroke to their ego? Why should they be upset? The sooner you tell them, the less upset they’re likely to be.”

  God, she’s right. Now I just need to work up the nerve to do it.

  ***

  I toss and turn all night, unable to sleep. Thinking about them. How I’d rather be in their arms, pressed between their bodies, listening to them breathe.

  It scares me, that I’ve grown so used to them already, so in need of them. They were two-dimensional figures to me before I really knew them. Pretty outlines, empty inside.

  Everything has changed. Nothing’s clear anymore.

  I wonder if it ever was.

  As I stare at the ceiling, I wonder if Jethro is doing the same. Or if he’s drawing, or staring out the window at the lit-up city, thinking.

  If Joel is dreaming of me. If he talked with Jethro, and what they said. What they decided. I hope they’re not too pissed off at me for running away not to talk to me tomorrow.

  I only wish I had the words for what I have to say and knew how to steel my heart in case they decide they can’t trust me anymore.

  But Connie is right. I have to come clean, tell them about my obsession with them.

  Only they can never know about the blog. About the serial. A girl is allowed to have a secret, right? I’d die if they found out about it.

  I’ve never been so stressed about the next morning since my first day in kindergarten, and let me tell you, that was bad.

  So when Brylee finally comes home and sticks her head in my room, I all but jump on her and wrap my legs around her to make her stay and talk.

  About anything. About fairytales and princes, if that’s what she wants. Anything to take my mind off the current situation.

  “You still up? Has hell frozen over?” She sits down on my bed, and I jump on it, making the springs creak. “Wait a sec, aren’t you spending every moment of your waking time with the boys nowadays? What, were they too busy tonight for nookie?”

  Only Brylee would use the word nookie for hot sex. Sometimes I wonder if she’s still a virgin. “Bry, I need your advice.”

  “And… the world is ending.” She looks pleased, though, as she leans back. “Tell Bry everything.”

  I hesitate. Can you blame me, after this intro? “Can’t we just drink hot chocolate and watch videos on YouTube? There’s one of the Supernatural epic funny fails you haven’t seen yet.”

  At some point we were the Supernatural Girls. Then Bry decided to go after real-life men and left me alone with my fantasies.

  “You don’t want to talk about your semi-real boyfriends?”

  “Nah.”

  “Pity.” She leans forward. “Did I tell you what I found out about Joel Kingsley?”

  Um… “What? Why were you looking into him in the first place?”

  “Remember I told you about this scandal he was involved in a year ago?”

  It rings a faint bell. “Bry…” Not sure I want to hear about Joel’s scandal right now. Or think about him and Jet, period.

  “It was a picture of him,” Brylee says, obviously not noticing my pained tone. “Jacking off with two girls. Guess who one of them was?”

  “Who?” Dread is curling in my stomach.

  “Ellen Davenport. Guess all that pretending she didn’t want him was all for show. He slept with her all right.”

  I feel sick. He told me… What did he say? That he’d never even kissed Ellen.

  He lied to me. What else did he lie about? And I know it sounds hypocritical when I’m debating which parts of the truth to tell them, but God… I’m debating whether to tell them how long I’ve wanted them, while he lied about wanting Ellen, about having sex with her.

  Who’s to say he isn’t still seeing her?

  “Know what?” I hop off the bed and head toward the kitchen. “Hot chocolate won’t cut it tonight. We need something stronger.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  JOEL

  In my dream, Jet is lying still, too still, in a growing pool of blood. I try to wake him up, but he won’t. He can’t.

  Again I wake up drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding.

  This is fucking nuts.

  Like always, I pad over to his room to check on him. When I see his chest rising and falling, I relax.

  This has to stop.

  I come awake, not sure why, and now I can’t go back to sleep. My goddamn brain won’t rest.

  Normally after mind-blowing sex like I’ve just had tonight with Candy and Jet I drop like a rock—but between the newness of this threesome thing, Candy’s admission and sudden flight… Yeah, with all that plus my worry about work and the uneasy feeling I get when I’m there, it’s no wonder my sleep is shot.

  At least I didn’t dream of Jet dying this time.

  Throwing the covers off me, I pad to the bathroom to drink some water and take a piss. Maybe I’ll watch some TV until I fall asleep on the couch. I’d read, but I’m too tired to focus on actual words.

  My plan goes to hell when I enter the living room and find someone sprawled on the sofa already, the TV playing on mute.

  “Jet?” I prepare to shove him over and demand he make space for me, when I realize his eyes are closed.

  Fucker is asleep. He’s twisted in an awkward position, though, on his stomach, his legs tangled in the cushions, his face buried in the crook of one arm. He’s only dressed in black boxer briefs, the ink on his upper back and arms stark against his pale skin. A few swirls of black decorate his lower back, too: a sort of curling wave.

  I study his tattoos. It’s beautiful, arresting art, dark and sprawling and complex, like him. I stare at them, wondering like every time what they mean to Jet. There’s a violence in them I don’t like, and I wish I knew more about his past. I wish he’d tell me.

/>   He shifts uneasily, twisting his legs more, one arm clutched over his head. His drawing pad is on the floor where it must have fallen out of his hand.

  Fucker was working on the comic. The page I can see looks fucking awesome. How can he breathe like that, though? His damn face is stuffed in the cushions.

  I sit down on the edge of the sofa, rub my hands over my face. The TV is playing some late night show with women dressed as bunnies and men in caveman gear chasing them.

  Fuck, is that a thing? I imagine Candy dressed as a bunny, and my dick perks up. Huh. Guess it could be. My dick sure thinks so.

  Jet mutters something unintelligible into the cushion and then moans.

  The sound freezes me up. It’s not a good, I’m-having-a-good-time moan. It sounds like he’s in pain.

  “Jet.” I stretch over to put a hand on his shoulder, but his head comes up and collides with my fingers.

  He gasps, then tries to turn over, arms flailing, and fails. He fights with the cushions, punching his fists into the sofa, his face a mask of fear.

  “Dammit, stop.” I grab his arm, but that only seems to make it worse for him. He wrenches his arm free and kicks at me, garbled sounds that might be words falling from his mouth. I grab at his ankles. “Jet, stop, it’s me. Joel.”

  He sobs something, then finally stills. His wide eyes stare back at me, blank and full of fear. His face is deathly white.

  “Don’t let him,” he whispers, barely above a breath.

  “It’s okay, Jet, it’s just a nightmare.” I pat his leg, something twisting in my chest from seeing him like this and not knowing how to help. “It’s not—”

  “Don’t let him get me, too,” he pleads, his voice broken.

  I blink. “Man, Jet, that must have been a hell of a nightmare. But it was a nightmare.” I slide my hand up his arm. His body is shaking on the couch, his skin cold and clammy under my palm. “Just…”

  Just what? How can I help him? I think back to when I had the nightmare of him bloodied and dying, and shiver. He was there for me.

  Hell, why not? It’s a big couch, and if it gets him to sleep and rest… He hasn’t been sleeping much lately, but I don’t remember seeing him this bad before.

  “Scoot over,” I tell him and shove him a little when he doesn’t move. “Damn, you’re heavy.”