Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  Static. For a long moment, perhaps three breaths, nothing but static. His mouth spoke words his brain couldn’t articulate. “I couldn’t.”

  “You could,” Meyer said, and their two bodies slowed. The man’s tone was warm and sinful, undeniably inviting, but John didn’t feel pressured, per se, merely upended.

  “Not tonight,” came his reply.

  “Very well.”

  As their pace resumed, so did John’s clarity. Coherent thought returned to him, and with it relief. What he’d said was exactly right. He couldn’t. Not tonight, at least. For one thing, he wasn’t ready for whatever Meyer might want to do with him. For another, he and Suzy hadn’t had sex—intercourse, anyway—and given his past, that was a big deal to John. If it happened, he wanted it to be like the night before. Just the two of them, just him and Suzy and no pressure, only her addictive and easy enthusiasm. The spectacle before him was exquisite and he wanted it, a hundred percent. But if his body was to join the scene he wanted something else. Something gentler.

  One didn’t simply jump into a high-octane bisexual three-way without backtracking and fixing the mess they’d made of their only attempt at straight, vanilla intercourse.

  But Christ, that didn’t stop him from wanting every last goddamn thing Meyer was offering.

  Chapter Seventeen

  John had never felt half this insane, watching them online. He’d thought his body might explode from neglect on any number of those nights, but it was nothing, nothing compared to this.

  As the minutes ticked by he wondered, why the fuck had he declined Meyer’s invitation? He could be with them now, on that bed. He’d come the second either of them so much as breathed on him, but that had to be better than this suffering, surely.

  “Fuck, Meyer.” Suzy’s voice had changed, and John could see her ferocity in the way her fingertips dug into her lover’s skin. The grace was draining from this performance, replaced by something more frantic and needy. John knew that shift from the nights he’d watched them. It had always excited him, the proof that this was no mere show, their pleasure perfectly real and raw.

  He watched the way her hips moved, in tight, short thrusts. It obscured the more explicit details, but John didn’t care. He’d never seen her come this way, on top. He’d never asked for it, but now he had to wonder why. She looked so powerful. He’d always set things up so Meyer was the one working, so to speak, Suzy the one being spoiled. It was how he imagined sex ought to be, the woman catered to. But Jesus, this was sexy. He tried again to imagine how she’d feel on top of him, in his lap, doing this. Using him for her own gratification. Excitement surged inside him, hot and heady.

  Meyer groaned. “Fuck that cock, honey.”

  Her hand slid up from his shoulder to clutch his hair, and after a dozen more thrusts, it happened. She seized up, from her toes to her lips, squeezing her body to his and moaning in that way that so haunted John’s fantasies.

  “Good,” Meyer whispered, seeming so patient and still, though surely he had to be aching for his own release. “Good.”

  She’d dropped her face to Meyer’s throat but she raised her head now, her cheeks flushed pink, forehead shining with sweat. “Fuck.”

  “Felt like a good one.”

  She smiled, looking exhausted. “Yeah, that was intense. Jesus.”

  “Well done.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He looked to John. “Requests?”

  John shook his head. He wasn’t paying them. He wanted to see them just as they were, as Suzy and Meyer, not the Parkses.

  “Very well.” Meyer urged her off him then lay back, half-reclined, pillows piled high beneath his head and shoulders. John tried and failed spectacularly to keep his attention off of Meyer’s cock.

  “My mouth?” she asked.

  “Your hand.”

  “You got it.”

  Meyer spread his legs and she knelt before them. She held his hip with one hand, wrapped the other around his erection. Meyer tucked her hair behind her ears then held her shoulders, gaze dropping to her fist as it made slow, tight-looking laps from his base to his head.

  “Just like that.” Meyer’s eyes shut.

  John watched, rapt. How fascinating to be a witness to this, when he had no idea which of them he’d rather be. To feel Suzy’s gifted hands on him, or to finally know the weight and heat of another man’s excitement in his hand. He’d have shivered if he weren’t burning alive.

  “You want it wet?” Suzy asked.

  “Sure.”

  She paused to slick her palm with her spit, stroking Meyer, slicking it again, until he shone in the lamplight.

  “Good.”

  John studied those intimate motions, memorized them, then let his eyes wander. He got lost in the quick rise and fall of Meyer’s belly and chest, the long cuts of his triceps and forearms as he held Suzy’s shoulders. The tendons strung tight along his throat, the shape of his lips and the ecstatic strain that creased his brow.

  Meyer’s eyes opened, locking on John. John couldn’t look away, much as he might wish to. After a long moment, Meyer smiled.

  “I like you watching,” he said. “It feels as good as her hands on me.”

  John couldn’t even form a reply.

  “Tell me you like watching me,” Meyer said.

  “I do.”

  “I wanted her hands so I could shut my eyes,” Meyer said, lids dropping once more, “and imagine it was you.”

  John’s moan was audible—low but audible—shock and pleasure made sound.

  “I’m close,” Meyer said, “and it’s all because of you.”

  His mouth opened and closed, but all that came out were panting breaths. His hand was all but shaking, dying to give his own hurting cock relief.

  “You want to see what it does to me,” Meyer asked, “imagining it’s you? You want to watch me come, John?”

  There was nothing for it except to answer, but John’s silence hung in the room like fog.

  “Tell me to, John. I’m so fucking close. Tell me you want to see it.”

  “I do.”

  A broad, smug, pure grin spread across Meyer’s face, and Suzy’s hand sped. She knew her lover inside out, surely, and could tell exactly how close he indeed was and knew what he needed.

  But it’s my hand he’s imagining. Surreal. And how strange it would feel to have that very cock in his grip, after only knowing the feel of his own. Would it feel intoxicating or intimidating, stroking someone that big? Could it feel like both?

  The questions scattered as those hazel eyes popped open once more, seeking John’s. Meyer didn’t say a word. He looked too far gone for that. He simply held John in thrall as Suzy brought him home, and that stare seemed to say, This hand should be yours. It should be your hand on me and you fucking know it.

  Meyer broke his silence with a groan, then, “Yeah. Yeah. Don’t stop.” His eyes narrowed to slits but they never shut. John felt them on him as Meyer’s hands dropped from Suzy’s shoulders, and as his knuckles blanched from how tightly he fisted the covers. John felt that gaze on him when the first wave of the orgasm hit, as the first lash of come basted Meyer’s belly, through to the final stroke, the final moan, the final release.

  John’s entire being was vibrating as he watched Meyer come down. The man’s eyes finally shut once more and his muscles softened, and he let go a great and quenching sigh.

  Suzy passed him a washcloth and he tidied himself, the act at once precise and thoughtless. He tossed the towel aside and looked to John. Smiled. Suzy sat cross-legged, smiling her own little self-satisfied smirk as she finger-combed her hair.

  The air hummed with the charge of sex. Or perhaps that was just John, vibrating alone in this room. The smell of them was heavy and ripe as summer itself, making him feel drunk. Crazed.


  “She came,” Meyer said to John at length, nodding in Suzy’s direction. “I came. That leaves you.”

  “Oh. I don’t . . . I wasn’t expecting that.” He doubted he was ready for it, no matter how badly his body might be screaming for it. “I only wanted to watch. You’ve given me plenty.”

  Meyer smiled. “Such sweet bullshit.”

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  Meyer left the bed, walking in all his naked glory to where John sat, then kneeling before him on the carpet. His cock wasn’t hard, at least not completely. It looked heavy, though. John’s heart stopped dead, along with the whole of the world, it seemed. Two slender, manicured hands alighted on his knees, rubbing softly through his pants.

  “Is this too forward?”

  John swallowed. “I have n-no idea.”

  A laugh. “I admire your honesty. Now let me touch you.”

  “Mey.”

  Meyer ignored Suzy, still rubbing. “Tell me you don’t want that.”

  “It’s . . . it’s a lot. I hadn’t been with a woman until last night. Not for seventeen years.”

  “Tell me you don’t want it.”

  After a long pause, John admitted, “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then come with me.” With that, Meyer stood once more, and returned to the bed. He took a seat, eyed John and patted the space beside him. Suzy sat by, watching with unmistakable hunger.

  Do I want this? Yes, was the answer. Wanted it, and feared it.

  What am I afraid of? Not the implications. Not the confirmation of his bisexuality. What John was afraid of was simple—he was afraid of the five or six steps that stood between him and the unknown. He was afraid of action. As ever. As always.

  And where has listening to my fears ever gotten me? He couldn’t say, but he knew where embracing his fears had taken him last night, and indeed this evening. It had led him to countless unforgettable memories, enough to warm him every lonely night of the rest of his life.

  So jump.

  He downed the last of his drink and set the glass aside. He rose, and he took those five or six steps. He sat where Meyer’s hand had patted, right between the two of them. He felt stiff and awkward, but euphoric besides, high in a way that seemed to separate his body and mind. He looked to Meyer and that high sensation surged. He couldn’t take his eyes off those hazel ones.

  “May I?” Meyer asked, reaching for John’s shirt.

  “Yes.”

  Meyer slid his hem out from the band of his pants and unbuttoned it slowly, eased it down his arms until it fell to the floor. Next he drew John’s undershirt up. John raised his arms and let him strip it clean away, the air cool on his skin but this man’s stare so hot. Meyer regarded John’s bare skin thoroughly, like a man studying a document of great intrigue. His lips parted and his tongue wet the lower one. A thousand years passed before that mouth finally spoke again.

  His hand slid slowly up John’s leg to his hip, his belt. “May I?”

  “Yes.” He leaned back, bracing on his hands, and watched with bald fascination as Meyer opened his buckle and slid the leather free. He plucked the button open, made effortless work of the second clasp, then the zipper. His knuckles brushed John’s aching cock through his fly and his shorts, and even that small, stifled contact drew a moan from his chest.

  “Tell me to stop,” Meyer said softly, tugging his pants open wider. “Anytime. I will. No questions asked.”

  John nodded, though “stop” was the farthest word from his lips.

  Everything blurred. He shifted, laying down, letting Meyer take his pants all the way off, so he was in only his shorts. And before he could gulp a final, bracing breath, those elegant fingers were on him, cupping his erection, tracing him slowly through the cotton all the way to his head.

  “Oh.” His eyes shut reflexively, and there was nothing but sensation, now. Nothing but the firm, warm feel of Meyer’s hand on him, stroking, stroking, stroking.

  “Not so very terrible, is it?”

  His eyes still wouldn’t open, and his mouth forgot how to speak. He shook his head.

  The touch faltered, paused, and finally John’s eyes opened. Meyer was leaning in close, and he eased John’s waistband down, exposing him.

  “Kiss me,” Meyer whispered, fingers going still, clutching the cotton and elastic.

  John did as he was told, sitting up, bringing his mouth to Meyer’s. He couldn’t say if he did a good job, only that it thrilled him. As their lips and tongues glanced and flirted, Meyer closed his hand around John’s cock. For a moment he didn’t rub, merely held, then squeezed. It was enough to set John panting against his mouth.

  A long, tight stroke, then back down. Another, another. Their lips broke apart, and what John did next came without thought, a hundred percent instinctual. He pressed his face to Meyer’s throat and breathed deep, overcome. His hands were on his own thighs, unsure where to go, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was how this felt. Like when Suzy had touched him, but completely not. Her touch had been thrilling, no doubt, but also sweet, also tender and . . . trustworthy. Her touch had been quenching, a moment he’d waited his entire life for. This, though . . .

  This was something he’d never expected to feel, and it was as taboo as it was pleasurable. It was every confusing, confounding fantasy he’d ever had about beautiful actors come to life, and he’d not prepared for it. If he woke up now, he wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  Meyer’s voice cut through the haze. “Tell me faster or slower.”

  “S-slower.” If he kept going like this, it would be over before John could believe it was even happening.

  That fist grew languid, the strokes long and tight and filthy, bringing the lust bubbling in John’s body to a rolling boil. He gasped, moaned, dropped his face again to Meyer’s neck without meaning to, and yet no force in nature could move it, now—it felt too right, this man’s skin pressed to his lips and the scent of his sweat and aftershave in John’s nose. This touch had left him helpless and reeling, and all he could do was cling.

  “You have no idea, the things I want to do with this cock,” Meyer whispered.

  The words stung like a slap, all shock and heat.

  “You have no idea how bad I’ve missed this. Being with a man.” A sigh warmed John’s temple, the sound at once smug and forlorn. “You’ve never touched another man before.”

  “No.”

  “Never fucked one.”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  He swallowed, head feeling fuzzy and mixed up, too hot. “I don’t know. I’ve imagined t-touching,” he stammered, “like this, but nothing more.” He’d fantasized about feeling a man’s mouth on him and tried to imagine reciprocating, but that was as far as his imagination had wandered.

  “I have an assignment for you,” Meyer said, still stroking him, slow and . . . cruel. “Homework.”

  “What?”

  “After you go home to Philadelphia, I want you to log on to the Web site. Find the sample video called Mr. Parks Gets Pegged.”

  John would’ve blushed if there’d been any blood left in his upper half.

  “Watch it,” Meyer said. “And imagine every face I make, every groan and swear and plea I utter is because it’s you, fucking me.”

  John moaned, and his lips slipped along Meyer’s neck, slick from the heat and his panting.

  “You do that, and ask yourself if you want that to be real. Because I can make that real. We can. That can be us, if you want it. And I want it, John.”

  Fuck, stop saying my name. Every time Meyer said it, it was as though that fist tightened, edging him closer and closer to the inevitable.

  “I want your hands on me and this hard cock inside me, and your voice behind me, moaning,” Meyer murmured. “Watch that video and imagine what I’ve told you, and if
you want that, too, you can have it. We can both have it.”

  Suzy broke her long silence. “Am I invited to this party?”

  “Always, my darling wife.”

  John was coming apart, coherent thoughts unraveling until his mind was a choppy, frantic slideshow of dark images, jumbled with the exquisite torture of Meyer’s hand, the tangible heat of Suzy’s gaze. He didn’t know if he could do the things Meyer was inviting him to, but he did know one thing—he’d want Suzy there. She made him bolder. Made him feel safe, even as she led him down the dark, intimidating paths he’d been too scared to explore until now.

  “Tell me you’ll watch it,” Meyer whispered.

  “I will.” The reply came out choked and flustered.

  “Good. And how does this feel?” he demanded, still stroking. “Faster? Tighter?”

  “I—I don’t know.” He didn’t. He was so worked up it felt as though his body were going to malfunction.

  Meyer kept up his pace. “The last time you watched us,” he murmured, “and she sucked my cock.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell, me John—which of us did you want to be?”

  The question swallowed him whole, the room soaring to two hundred degrees. “Neither. It w-was the two of you I wanted to see—the two of you I worshipped,” he admitted, “when I watched.”

  “How quaint. Tell me this, then. If you had to pick, which of us would you have wanted to be?”

  The answer came in a breath. “You.” To imagine being the one giving the pleasure was still beyond his comprehension.

  “I love your cock,” Meyer said, and all at once his fist stilled. The sudden absence of the friction was torture, drawing a low, long groan from John’s chest.

  “Don’t stop. Please. It hurts.”

  “That’ll never do. Ask me to suck you.”

  “Oh.” He bucked from the thought alone.

  “Ask me and I will. I’m dying to. I’ll beg you to let me, if that’s what you want. Just say it.”

  “Yes,” John said, nodding. “Okay.”

  “No, say it.”

  “Mey.” This admonishment from Suzy.