by Cara McKenna
That can’t happen tonight.
That wasn’t meant to happen at all this summer. The things he let Mica do to him, out in the wilderness, drunk on whiskey and the adrenaline of a day’s climb . . . Those things couldn’t follow him home. Those things had no place in Pittsburgh, in Vaughn’s real, everyday life. They had no place in this bed. In his identity. But he’d be lying to himself if he claimed he wasn’t excited by Mica, as much as he was by Clare.
He’d never reciprocated those dark deeds from their trips. Never taken a cock inside him—in his hand, perhaps, but never his mouth, never . . . elsewhere. Mica had always been fine with that, and somehow Vaughn had told himself that made it okay, made it less condemning than it could be. Except watching his friend tonight, watching him fuck, watching him in control, conducting . . . Shit, it was hot. He couldn’t deny it. But Clare didn’t need to know that. She didn’t need to know he was hot from both of them. Her body and her gaze, but Mica’s, as well. And from his words. From words stamped, indelibly, on Vaughn’s memories.
Just let me. I need it, same as you. It doesn’t mean anything.
Only it had, hadn’t it? Each and every time. If it had been nothing more than two guys getting off, why did it haunt Vaughn the way it did? Why had he not slept more than a half dozen hours in the two nights before Mica had been due to move in, utterly unsure which would prove stronger—his own resolve or his best friend’s will. Mica got what he wanted, though he’d paid lip service to Vaughn’s insistence that their summer as roommates not cross over into the dangerous territory that existed during their climbing trips. But tonight . . . tonight was blurry, in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. Tonight couldn’t be trusted, but neither could it be denied.
He knows it, too. He found a fucking loophole. Though Vaughn couldn’t pretend he wasn’t just a little bit glad.
When Mica moved aside, stripping his condom, Vaughn turned his attention to Clare, fully.
She was gorgeous. Fascinating, too. Light skin but dark freckles—nearly black. Slim waist, full hips. Beautiful breasts, long arms and neck, lush thighs. Her body was all contradictions, a puzzle he’d never get sick of working out. Like Mica, she was a hundred things in one. With her, the multitudes were physical. With Mica . . . With Mica it was more complex. Nothing with him was ever simple. Nothing between the two of them ever had been.
I’m going to feel his eyes on me, if not his hands, tonight.
Clare had sat up to finally ditch her bra and blouse, and he watched the elegant muscles of her back as she leaned over toward the side table. She turned and handed Vaughn a condom, wrapper stripped. He got between her legs, focused on her gaze as he rolled it on, told himself this was about him and her, only. If that were true, it would have been plenty.
But it isn’t, and I goddamn well know it.
Warm, slender hands stroked his shoulders and chest, inviting him closer. He planted his knees wide and lowered to brace himself on his arms. He guided his crown close, holding his breath as he let it slide along her slick seam, up and down, up and down. Her lips were parted, gaze nailed between them. He felt the same. Starved and crazy.
“Give it to her.” Mica’s words shut Vaughn’s eyes, their impact moving through him like a fever. “She earned it. Give her what she needs.”
Different words flashed, just as dark, just as dirty, spoken nearly a year ago, two thousand miles away. I know what you need. You know I can give you that. You know I want that, and I know you do, too.
He sank inside her. She was warm. Warm as Mica’s mouth had been on that cooling July night, but different. Passive, welcoming, an oasis. Mica . . . Mica was anything but passive. Even on his knees, he dominated. And though they’d never gone there, Vaughn imagined that even getting fucked, Mica would be on top, somehow.
“You feel amazing,” Vaughn whispered. Words he’d never have said to Mica in those forbidden moments, never in a million years. Words meant for female ears. Soft, hot, humble words, reflecting everything he felt when he got inside a woman. It didn’t matter that she’d just welcomed his best friend this same way. If anything it excited him, and not from the taboo, even. From being a part of spoiling her, perhaps, of helping to blow her mind. From being trusted this way, as well, welcomed to do this.
He could imagine a scenario in which a woman let herself be talked into sleeping with two guys, and not having it go this way. Being an object of degradation, not worship. He made it his mission to make sure Clare woke tomorrow with no regrets, only fond memories.
Her hands were on his abs, his sides, his ass, kneading, seeming to approve. He exaggerated the motions, rolling his hips, letting her feel each inch with slow, precise, explicit actions. Could Mica see, as well? The man had to be hard, still. Maybe touching himself. Vaughn didn’t dare look to confirm. If he is touching himself, what’s he thinking about?
More to the point, who was he thinking about?
About both of them, likely. About how he’d manifested all of this.
You always get what you want, don’t you? Vaughn nearly wanted to turn his head, to seek Mica’s eyes and pose that question aloud, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t even speak it in private, just the two of them. He never broached the topic of their sexual history, with the exception of telling Mica they were strictly platonic, in Pittsburgh.
I’m so fucking naive.
That little hit of anger, of an ancient-feeling tension . . . It tipped him into another place. Got his blood hot and his excitement edgy, got his hips pumping quicker and sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades. He turned all that energy over to Clare, let her feel it in the way he took her. Let himself feel it, testosterone never more like a chemical hit than right now.
He loved her eyes on him, hungry and fascinated. He wasn’t a man-whore in the least, yet he could admit this was exciting, in its dirty way—being with a woman so impulsively, one he barely knew but wanted nonetheless. Being with a woman, knowing she wanted him right back, but knowing there was no pressure, just sex. Just this night, these questionable decisions, the heat of the moment. The urgency of their bodies. This would never last. This was his one chance with her, and it charged him up, made him feel big and alive and wild.
“Fuck, you’re wet.”
“From both of you.”
He swallowed, his throat feeling thick. Could that be true? Had she thought of him even as she’d been with Mica? Her eyes had told him, yes, it had been the three of them the entire time.
“What do you need?” he asked her, craving a task to keep from losing himself too quickly.
“Just let me see how you are. How different you both are.”
“I could touch you.” Or Mica could. “Anything you want. This is your night.” He realized how true that was as he said it. And how much it excited him to be a part of it. He loved women, and loved pleasing them. To imagine that tonight might be the most decadent night of Clare’s life was satisfying on a whole new level.
“I can do it,” she said. And she did. Her slender arm edged between them and she stroked her clit. He let himself watch, mesmerized.
“Tell me how you want me. Faster, slower . . .”
“This is perfect.” She rubbed in time with his thrusts. For a minute he was lost in her alone, until the shadows shifted. The bed shifted. Mica was beside him—not close enough for their bodies to touch, but enough for Vaughn to sense the heat of his friend’s skin, and to catch the smell of his excitement and sweat. His head went foggy, memories nagging.
Mica was a little behind him, a little above him. A familiar sensation, one he’d not felt in nearly a year, rocked him—a hard, strong hand on his upper back.
Fuck, I know that hand. This was the feel of the most frightening and exhilarating and hot-wrong moment of his life, six summers back, when he’d first felt his best friend’s fingers close around his cock. Nothing like a woman’s touch, but s
o exactly like Mica’s.
You know I’m bi, right? Mica had spoken those words perhaps an hour before that fateful moment. And Vaughn had known it. Back in their Urban Exchange days, he’d heard from some of the other boys that Mica had said as much to them, matter-of-fact. Plus, Mica had that quality that had had Vaughn suspecting as much already. Not androgyny, but . . . something. Something about the way he held himself: too sensual to be completely masculine; too assured, too cocky to be truly feminine. Graceful and raw, that was Mica. Plus, in that group of straight, thug-wannabe urban teens, he wore jewelry. Rings, a wrist cuff, thick hoops in his ears. No diamond studs, no oversized crosses, but artsy shit none of them would have gone for, not in their hoods and not out in the wilderness. Mica wasn’t what anybody expected or demanded that he be. Never had been. So Vaughn had told him, I figured, maybe. Doesn’t matter to me, though.
He’d thought his friend had been confessing. They’d shared a lot of personal stuff by then—childhood baggage chiefly, and that shit was heavy, especially on Mica’s end. He’d thought it had maybe been nerves that had put that tension in his eyes, fear that Vaughn might reject him when he came clean about his sexuality.
Again, naive. That had been but a preamble. A warning, even, looking back . . .
You know I’m bi, right?
What had he really been saying, though?
You know I want you, right?
You know I’m about to blow your goddamn mind, don’t you, straight boy?
You know you want me right back.
And maybe that was true. Maybe Vaughn would’ve seen it all coming, if he hadn’t been too scared to admit he was curious. Mica had an energy that he’d always found impossible to ignore—at first it had grated, then he’d come to admire it. And eventually, in drunken, sentimental moments, he’d felt now and then that maybe he even had a crush of sorts on the guy.
That hand on his back crept higher, clamping possessively at the base of his neck. Vaughn moaned, eyes shutting. Clare could see. He knew she could. What she’d make of it, he couldn’t guess.
“He feel good?” Mica asked her.
“Amazing.”
Vaughn opened his eyes. Clare’s gaze wasn’t on his face, but a little to the side. On Mica’s arm, maybe, or his thumb, where it gripped Vaughn’s neck, if she could see that.
“You like his cock?”
“Yeah.”
“Big enough?”
She nodded, like the words had run out on her, and her attention dropped between their bodies.
“You like having both of us?”
Again, Vaughn’s eyes shut. Mica always knew what to say. Just opened his mouth and let the nasty, dirty, exciting truth of whatever was happening fall from those lips. He never held back; not when it came to sex, anyway.
“Yes,” Clare said, more a moan than anything—Vaughn’s motions had quickened at the question. He was rocking into her, swaying her breasts, bouncing her hair. It was as much the hand on his neck as it was the heaven of her pussy around his dick that had spurred him.
Only that hand moved then, sliding all the way down his back to his hip. Mica rode the motions at first, then urged them, pushing each time Vaughn drove deep. He’d felt that hand there before, when Mica had gone down on him, but never quite like this. Greedy, maybe, but never so bossy.
“On your sides,” Mica said. His voice sounded so big in the dim, quiet room, the order so absolute.
And isn’t it? Wouldn’t we both do exactly what he tells us?
He moved to his side and Clare rolled onto her hip, cocking her leg so he could make his way back inside her. He clasped her other thigh tight to his as he got seated, and the position changed everything. Their faces were close enough to kiss, her eyes there, right there.
Before it had been a performance, but this was a dance. She met his movements with her own, and he loved the brush of her belly against his, her breasts against his chest, the pressure of the hand gripping his shoulder. He knew Mica was behind him, watching, maybe stroking—it didn’t matter. It didn’t make it any less intimate. If anything Vaughn felt closer to her, knowing they were the same—two wide-eyed, willing pawns in Mica’s game.
Vaughn waited for that rough hand again, but it didn’t come. Instead he felt the mattress lift as his friend left the bed to circle around, then stretch out behind Clare. Mica stroked her arm, kissed her shoulder and neck. His eyes met Vaughn’s, and a current hummed between them, undeniable.
“You want to come on his cock?” Mica whispered.
Her lips parted and she licked them before answering. “Yes.”
“You want me, too? My hand?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get.”
Vaughn swallowed, knowing what was next. Mica curved an arm along Clare’s waist, his fingers slipping between their joined bodies. He felt those weathered knuckles against his belly and sucked a harsh breath. How far are you going to take this? How far did Vaughn wish he might take it? Far enough for Clare to guess that there was more to the two of them than met the eye?
He let his forehead press into Clare’s, let her hear how labored his breathing had grown. He’d have counted on Mica’s hand dialing him back a notch with a witness, cooling him, but no. He felt close. Not on the brink, but edging toward it.
It wasn’t lost on Clare. “You close?”
“Getting there.”
She kissed him, the contact doing something strange, releasing a wave of calm pleasure that seeped from his mouth down his neck, his spine, arms, and legs. Grounded him, even as he felt Mica’s knuckles working Clare’s clit between them. He kissed her back, deeply, feeling grateful and more naked than he could remember.
“I’m close, too,” she whispered.
“What do you need?”
“Exactly this.” She pulled back enough to let him see her smile. It must have been evident, how overwrought he felt, as she touched his cheek, held his face. “Maybe we’ll get there together.”
“Maybe.” He barely knew what they were talking about, so lost in his body. His gaze flicked to Mica, finding those dark eyes burning. Smoldering. He smiled, and Vaughn’s face flushed as his own eyes shut.
The hand between them slid free, and Vaughn opened his eyes to find Mica reaching for the condoms. What’s next? he wondered. How dirty were things about to get, exactly?
“Give me a turn?” he murmured to Clare, an order dressed as a request.
She looked to Vaughn, and he obliged. He needed the break, frankly, if he didn’t want to lose himself. Or maybe not. He was transfixed by Clare’s face as she angled her body and welcomed Mica inside from behind. Vaughn wasn’t even touching himself and he felt that hot pressure mounting between his legs, just watching them.
“Touch her.” Mica’s words were barely audible, his lips and tongue teasing Clare’s neck as he thrust, slow and deep.
Vaughn did as he was told. Her clit was stiff and hot, dragging against his fingertips. He took a leap, sliding those fingers lower, feeling the point of penetration. Feeling her lips, feeling Mica’s rushing cock. She was wet, and he brought that slickness back to her clit. She bucked at the sensation, exciting him.
“Like this?” he asked, circling lightly.
“A little quicker.”
He gave that, and a touch more pressure.
“Yeah,” she breathed. She was nearly there. He could see it on her strained face, hear it in her voice. He kept that hand working and curled his body lower. He caught her nipple with his lips and immediately her hands were on his head. Possessive. Approving. He teased her, getting hotter himself by the moment. He felt Mica’s motions—the impact and the withdrawal, the weight and strength of him.
“Who do you want?” Mica asked her. “Whose cock do you want to come on?”
“His cock. Your hand.”
&n
bsp; The opposite of how she’d first come, Vaughn thought. And the flattery lit him up. She wanted him. She chose him.
“Give her what she needs,” Mica said as he pulled away. He turned his attention to Clare. “You like getting shared like this?”
Her eyes were still shut tight and she nodded. Vaughn found his way to her pussy, those soft lips scorching hot on his cock after long minutes of deprivation. He pushed deep, made the motions dirty, wanting to echo the tone of Mica’s words.
“Tell me how fast.”
“As fast as you like it.” Those dark eyes opened and she stroked his face.
Vaughn liked it however the woman in his bed needed it, but it seemed Clare needed to feel a touch used. Mica had set the mood, so he gave what he imagined his friend had in mind. Quick and a little rough, a little greedy, just a faint underline highlighting the fact that she was giving herself to two men, was pinned between their bodies and desires.
Her fingers dug at his neck and shoulder. She liked what he was giving. He liked it, too, feeling like this sort of man for a little while. Mica, he lived as the embodiment of every dirty impulse that passed through his head. Vaughn softened his most impolite, aggressive instincts, because more than any of that, he desired to be a good lover. But here and now, he could be the beast that lived inside every man. Maybe in every woman, too.
He clasped Clare’s thigh, pinned it to his hip, and hammered.
“You want my hand?” He let an edge rise in his voice with the words, just how Mica would ask it.
And the answer came not from Clare but from Mica. “She wants mine,” he corrected. His arm circled her waist, hand slipping between her and Vaughn once more.