Robert shouldered through the door first, boots shedding snow in wet clumps that melted quick on the cabin’s worn, and behind him loomed Cyrus, ducking the lintel with a grace that belied his size. From the moment Alex clocked him, framed in the threshold like a goddamn statue, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Cyrus was even more handsome up close, impossible as that sounded, a living upgrade on the Insta grid: at least two inches taller than Robert’s 6’2”, pushing 6’5” easy, and wider too, shoulders eclipsing the coat rack behind him, muscles bulging under that adorable sweater like fresh off a superhero movei. His sheer presence sucked the air from the room, turning their cozy cabin small and charged, like he’d a storm’s worth of heat in his wake
Not even Robert sidling close could yank Alex’s stare loose. Cyrus hung back a step, politely, dark eyes dipped to the floorboards in a easy stand, giving them space. Robert’s thumb dug a teasing circle into Alex’s hipbone, pulling him in for a quick peck. Had it lingered longer, Alex wondered in a dizzy flash, gone full kiss, tongues and all, would he taste Cyrus there?
“Hey, handsome,” Robert mumbled low, just for the two of them, “You okay? All good?” There it was, that glint, the same one from last night’s kitchen sink standoff, Robert’s gaze searching deep, cautious, gauging if the game was still on or if the heat flipped to hesitation. Finally, Alex wrenched his eyes from Cyrus and met Robert’s stare, grin fighting to split wide despite his best cool-guy clamp. “All good,” he managed. Robert nodded slow, the tension leaving him in the drop of his shoulders.
“Here, let me introduce,” Robert said, gesturing broad with his free hand toward the colossus by the door. Cyrus straightened at the call, eyes lifting, the velvet smile curving as he stepped into the light proper. “This is Cyrus. Cy, this is Alex, my darlin’ husband, the one who keeps me from burnin’ the house down on my days off.”
Cyrus turned the full power of his eyes on Alex then, dark and warm as aged bourbon, his face blooming in that same dazzling smile from yesterday that made Alex’s knees go weak. That fucking smile, Jesus, it shouldn’t be fair, no man should be able to muster that kind of voltage just by flashing teeth. “Hi,” Alex said simply, counting it as victory that he didn’t stammer.
“Pleasure to meet you, Alex,” Cyrus replied, voice rolling out exactly like Alex had pictured it: smooth and suave as caramel drizzled slow, elegant edge wrapping each syllable, the kind of warmth that invited you to pull up a chair and spill secrets over cocoa. He extended a massive hand, engulfing Alex’s in a shake that lingered a beat too long, firm but gentle, like he knew his size could overwhelm and chose not to. “Rob’s told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already.
The pet name didn’t slip past Alex. Robert was a man of many handles: Bobby to his folks over Sunday roasts, Uncle B. to his nephews during game board night, Big Bob to the crew razzing him at the station, even The Bobert from those grizzled climbing buddies; But Rob? That was sacred ground, their private shorthand, Rob and Alex, Robert going so far as to shut it down with a sheepish grin of “Sorry, only my husband’s got dibs on Rob.” To hear it roll off Cyrus’s lips like that, easy and innate, like he’d been born to murmur it over a shared blanket, curled Alex’s stomach in the most perfect, twisted way: a delicious sneaker slipping into marriage’s, claiming space that should be theirs alone, but fuck if it didn’t make the air hum hotter, the throb starting low in Alex’s sweats.
The words were cliché as hell, but they landed perfect anyway. Alex had to tilt his head a bit to lock eyes proper, Cyrus was that tall, and his cologne hit him full, a subtle rush of sandalwood and amber laced with crisp pine, making Alex’s nose flare with the urge to lean in closer, sniff deep like a dog on a hot trail.
“You guys have a good time? Did Rob behave?” Alex asked.
“You know I never do,” Robert shot back, and Cyrus’s laugh rolled out then like a well-aged scotch poured neat.
“He was perfect, Alex. You’re a very lucky man. You both are, from what Rob’s told me.”
“Oh, I bought your novel! What Remains Unspoken? It sold so well, you must be really proud!” Alex pressed on, enthusiasm bubbling up, inside the thrill humming: Cyrus here, he’s here.
“I am, I sure am. Thank you for that, it means the world,” Cyrus replied. “It’s the money from that book that’s let me steal lazy afternoons writing in the Café. Rob tells me you’re a writer too?”, he added, tilting his head a fraction.
“Oh, god, no,” Alex dismissed with laughter. “I only wrote a couple scientific papers. Nothing coming close to a novel. No one is paying to read my stuff.”
“Brilliant papers, though,” Robert cut in.
“As if you read them,” Alex shot back, teasing. To Cyrus, he added “Robert can’t read anything longer than cereal boxes.”
“Well, I knew he had to have at least one fault,” Cyrus sighed wistfully, sharing the joke seamless, ignoring the half-laughing, half-outraged hey! Robert let out. “What do you write about, then? The papers?”
“Mostly nursing and clinical care research, you know, the kind of stuff that only five other people in the world actually read,” Alex replied, warming to the genuine interest in Cyrus’s gaze. And because Cyrus seemed truly hooked, Alex kept going. “Actually, I just finished a paper about how AI tools are changing the nursing workflow, like, you know, if they’re really helping us care better, or just turning us into glorified data entry clerks.”
Alex knew he was rambling, what the fuck were he was even talking about? Who gave a shit about his little nursing papers that’d put a caffeinated barista to sleep? He clocked it mid-sentence, but hell, he knew what he was doing: propping himself up, showing that, sure, ok, wasn’t some globe-trotting celeb like Cyrus, jetting off for TED talks and signings, nor the everyday hero like Robert that charged into fires and hauled lives from the inferno. Nah, but he could be interesting too, he could be impressive, worthy of splitting the spotlight, holding his own in this charged triangle without fading to side-character dull.
But Cyrus leaned in friendly as he replied, “That sounds fascinating, Alex. I read all types of different shit to keep the gears turning. Last week, I almost blew a deadline because I was deep in an ethnographic study of funeral home break rooms. Don’t ask how I found it; rabbit holes have no mercy.” He laughed then, voice dripping like melted chocolate over. Alex thought that if the writing gig ever fizzled, that voice alone could bankroll a podcast empire. “There’s nothing a writer under block won’t do to stall,” Cyrus added, shrugging one boulder shoulder in self-deprecation.
“Aw, look at you both, all sweet and polite, talkin’ about books like it’s a goddamn library mixer,” Robert drawled. He clapped his hands once, loud, echoing. “How ‘bout we get this show on the road, huh? Let’s fuck!” To punctuate it crude, he hip-thrusted the air once, like a fucking teenage boy, thighs pumping exaggerated before stalking toward the bedroom hallway with a wicked laugh.
Alex and Cyrus rolled their eyes in perfect unison, mirrored exasperation that had Alex’s grinning because fuck, they were already in sync, two puzzle pieces clicking without trying. They just stared at each other then, the cabin’s fire crackling soft in the beat. Cyrus’ eyes were warm and deep, full of future promises. He gestured to the hallway with a fluid sweep of his massive hand, a perfect gentleman, head dipping humble as he murmured, “After you.”
“You go ahead,” Alex replied, “I need to lock the doors. Don’t want any carolers crashing the party.” Cyrus nodded before tracing Robert’s steps down the hall, his superhero bulk filling the frame till it swallowed him whole, leaving Alex alone.
Alex did what he said he would, double-checking the locks on the front door with a firm twist and the cabin’s windows next, yanking sashes down and latching them snug against the deepening dusk. But he knew he was stalling, pure and simple, fingers lingering on the cold brass longer than needed as the reality sank in: Cyrus was here, in their bedroom now, probably laugh to some of Robert’s teasing. He padded to the kitchen instead, filling a glass with water from the tap, glugging slow down his throat as he leaned against the counter. He was nervous as hell, stomach heavy like he’d swallowed a brick wrapped in butterflies, the want so fucking fierce it clawed at his ribs. Years of this fantasy heating and now boiling over... but dread nipped at the edges too, a sneaky what-if. Most of him was sure it’d be perfect: a few hours of filthy fun, bodies tangling and etching lifetime memories of Robert’s owning Cyrus while Alex stroked himself dizzy in the corner, all grins and cuddles come dawn. But another part, a quieter, sneakier voice, whispered catastrophe, that this threesome could crack open a door to something he wasn’t braced for, sneaking in like smoke under a door. Jealousy, insecurity, or maybe, a hunger that would never sate again Fuck it, he thought, steeling himself. He trusted Robert blindly. They loved each other ferociously, deep and unbreakable. They faced fuck-ups side-by-side, always had, always would. Whatever cracked open tonight, they’d patch it.
Alex made his way to the bedroom, the fire’s roar pulling him up like a siren’s call, golden glow from the secondary lights spilling into the hall like spilled honey....
... and what he saw when he crossed the doorway hit him like a freight train. His breath seized in his chest, his widening to saucers as the scene slammed home: the warm, ethereal haze of the lamps and hearth turning the the bedroom into some fever-dream altar, shadows dancing lewd and languid against the log walls like the wettest fantasy Alex had ever spun in the dark hours. Or maybe it was just them, the two fine specimens tangled, locked in the most passionate kiss he’d ever witnessed, hot as a struck match but beautiful too, strangely, achingly, like a Renaissance fresco gone gloriously filthy.
Robert and Cyrus kissed slow, almost lazy, like they’d been at it their whole damn lives, lips sliding slick and sure, tongues tracing unhurried paths that spoke of lifetimes mapped, not rushed conquests. Like they were made for it, bodies finally orbiting home after a cosmic detour. Robert was Odysseus, storm-tossed and salt-worn, finally washing up on lips that felt like Ithaca. Cyrus’s full mouth devouring with hunger, dark eyes slitted in bliss, diamond earring glinting firelight in a stormy night.
Alex gasped or must’ve; he didn’t remember, honestly, time fuzzing out to white noise around the wet sounds of their kiss, the soft rasp of beard on smooth jaw, the way Cyrus’s cologne mingled with Robert’s cedarwood scent into something headier than bourbon. But he must’ve made some noise, a hitch in the hush, because Robert’s eyes, closed till then, lost in the lazy plunder, snapped open, locking on Alex’s across the room with that confident spark, hazy but homing in like a beacon cut through fog. “There you are,” he managed to rumble, voice gravel-thick, drawl edged with a smirk even mid-kiss, like he’d been waiting for the audience to drop the curtain.
Before Alex could say something, Cyrus surged back in, claiming Robert’s mouth again, demanding, tongue invading deep and unrelenting, a silent command that swallowed Robert’s chuckle whole. Right there, in front of Alex, his husband, melting under the attack, hands sliding up to pull Cyrus closer as if to say take it all, it’s all yours, the sight twisting Alex’s gut delicious and desperate, his cock kicking hard in the sweatpants like it wanted to applaud.
Robert’s hands gripped that enormous ass with unapologetic strength, fingers smashing into the firm globes, yanking their bodies flush in a grind that erased every inch of space between them. Alex’s breath hitched sharp, eyes glued to the obscene press: bulges straining denim, thick outlines rutting slow and deliberate, the friction pulling a deep, guttural moan from Robert’s chest that vibrated straight into Cyrus’s mouth and echoed like thunder in Alex’s bones. It sent a jolt of electricity lancing down his spine till in his cock. Fuck, he needed to sit down, he thought, distantly, and he stumbled clumsy toward the armchair tucked strategic in the bedroom’s shadowed corner, the one that was already there when he and Robert had rented the cabin, as if becoming a voyeur to Robert and Cyrus was written in his stars from the jump.
The shuffle scuffed the rug faint, but it was enough for Cyrus’ eyes to crack open mid-plunder, snapping to Alex with an intense stare that lit every nerve in his body ablaze. Robert didn’t miss a beat, trailing wet, delicate kisses along Cyrus’s smooth jaw, then dipping to the corded line of his neck, sucking and bitting, marking. Still locked on Alex, Cyrus tilted his head a fraction to the side, giving Robert better access before his voice rolled out. “Rob tells me you only want to watch?”
“Y-yes,” fuck, Alex actually stuttered, voice cracking like a teenager’s first pitch, heat flooding his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Is that okay?”
Cyrus’s stare didn’t waver, hand still framing Robert’s jaw, thumb tracing the beard. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get,” he murmured. “But if something bothers you, don’t hesitate to say, you hear? This is all for you.” The words hung humble but loaded, Cyrus’s full lips curving in a smile that bloomed genuine, no ego in the offer, just that graceful nod to the room’s fragile balance.
“Yeah, babe,” Robert agreed, punctuating each word with a hot, kiss dragged along Cyrus’s neck. He twisted his head, locking eyes with his husband. “All for you.”
“And you,” Cyrus countered, grabbing Robert’s chin with a firm hand, turning his jaw back to him as he leaned in close, breath ghosting Robert’s lips. “Are all mine.”
“Fuck yeah I am,” Robert growled back, mouth crashing back on Cyrus’s.
And fuck yeah, he was. Alex saw it clear as the ice crusting the cabin windows outside, that unfiltered surrender in Robert’s frame as Cyrus claimed him inch by inch. In that moment, fuck, his husband belonged to Cyrus, body melting under his mouth like wax to flame. It showed in the way those Cyrus’ lips devoured his thorough, tongue mapping every secret hollow; the way Cyrus’s massive hands spanned Robert’s waist, thumbs dimpling to press bruises that’d bloom tomorrow like love bites from a god. Cyrus wanted to own him whole, soul-deep, no half-measures, and fuck if Robert wasn’t handing himself over on a silver platter.
Distantly, a sliver of Alex’s mind wandered treacherous paths. What if Robert and Cyrus had crossed before that club night he and Alex had met? Or even later, when he and Robert were still green, testing the waters with fumbling dates and “define this” talks, their bond a fragile bloom not yet rooted? Would they have clicked then, Cyrus’s pull yanking Robert into his orbit, no room for anyone else? He was pretty confident in what they had, but without those years of love-trust-companionship mortar, when it was all tentative laughs and “let’s see,” would he have stood a chance against this? Cyrus cast a shadow that swallowed light. Would Alex have shone bright enough to pierce it, or would he flicker out like a candle in a storm, that early interest Robert sparked for him guttered against the bonfire chemistry unfolding right there before his eyes.
Alex snapped back to reality like when Cyrus shoved Robert back onto the bed with a firm press of his palm. “Take those clothes off, big boy,” Cyrus commanded, “I wanna see that firefighter’s body up close.”
Robert didn’t miss a beat, yanking his boots off with twin kicks, then shucking his pants in a blur of denim that probably shattered the world record for speed-strip, muscular thighs bursting free, checkered boxers hugging the heavy swing of his cock like christmas wrapping paper. Jumper and shirt peeled off next, landing in a heap by the hearth, baring his golden-furred chest and hard abs etched from gym hauls and hose drags. Alex clocked Cyrus’s dark eyes darkening further, desire pooling like ink as he raked the view. A swallow bobbed his throat, a humble hum escaping his mouth like he’d just uncorked fine wine. Robert, ever the exhibitionist, caught the stare and flexed his biceps for Cyrus, his arms ballooning to triple size, veins popping like rivers on a map. Alex’s chest nearly burst with pride then, a fierce swell cracking his ribs wide: that’s my husband, the thought thundering, possessive, that delicious hunk of a man, his husband, who used his last name and his ring, even his fucking checkered boxers tented with the cock that’s wrecked him a thousand ways.
Cyrus was much slower about it, drawing out the reveal of his body like one of his suspense builds: first shrugging off that silly reindeer sweater, then peeling his white shirt. His torso emerged like a masterpiece unveiled, magnificent, a true work of art: smooth planes etched with muscle that rolledunder firelight, pecs broad and smooth, abs a washboard carved from marble and will, tapering to a V that vanished into his slacks like an arrow begging to be followed. Robert cheered him, hollering ““Strip for me, Cy, show me what you got” and Cyrus, played along swaying to some invisible song. His hips moved smooth and hypnotic, a slow grind that rolled thighs like ocean waves. He hooked thumbs in his waistband, turning the tease into a dance that had Robert bursting with laughter as he propped on elbows, eyes locked hungry on the show. Then, with a wink tossed Alex’s way, Cyrus dropped his pants too.
The sight, once again that afternoon, fried Alex’s systems as Cyrus turned slowly in the fire’s glow, giving the full reveal. The man truly was perfect; there wasn’t one other word that applied, not “handsome” or “hot” but perfect, carved from some divine blueprint where every line hit sublime. His glutes alone were a work of art unto themselves, toned to mouthwatering firmness, smooth as polished obsidian, waxed professionally clean because no way nature handed out that flawless sheen without a little help, each cheek a rounded masterpiece begging for hands, tongues, worship. Alex was practically slobbering. He gripped the armchair arms till his knuckles popped. He was proud bottom, through and through, having topped fewer times than fingers on one hand (and even those were charity cases), but fuck if he wasn’t dying to bury his face between Cyrus’s cheeks right then and lick him slow to his core.
Cyrus wore only the tiniest jockstrap in the world now, crisp white against that rich dark skin, the pouch fidgeting for its life to cage the monster trapped inside, a thick, veined outline swelling heavier by the second, the fabric straining like it knew it was outmatched, and bigger and bigger, Holy fuck, how much bigger would that get?
Cyrus climbed onto the bed on all fours then, a lion prowling sleek and sure, elegant limbs unfolding like a well-plotted advance, that massive frame casting shadows that danced with the fire’s flicker. Robert opened his arms wide, welcoming as a king granting court, giving Cyrus unlimited access to every inch of him and a full-frontal show to Alex in his shadowed armchair, the view unfiltered and scorching like a private screening. Cyrus slipped into the embrace seamless, lying sideways along Robert’s length, thigh draping heavy over him, their bodies slotting like a puzzle.
They kissed again, that same languid, achingly familiar seal, lips sliding slow and deep as if they’d mapped this rhythm lifetimes ago, tongues tracing unhurried claims. Cyrus’s free hand roamed greedy, cupping Robert’s pecs hard enough to dimple the slabs, thumbs flicking nipples to stiff peaks that pulled a rumble from Robert’s chest. Lower still, fingers traced the etched outline of his six-pack, never breaking the kiss, sucking Robert’s lower lip in a teasing tug that had the firefighter arching up with a gravel groan. The ministrations wrung shivers from Robert again and again and again, his body quaking under the elegant assault, arms banding Cyrus closer like he wanted even more. Alex’s responded in kind from the corner, chills erupting through his whole frame in electric waves, cock throbbing insistent against his sweatpants as he gripped the armrests, breath coming short because fuck, it was poetry in motion, his husband owned and owning in equal measure.
Cyrus shoved his hand inside Robert’s boxers then, fingers wrapping the thick length with a hard, unyielding grip. Robert moaned, voice full of ecstasy, a deep rumble that cracked on the edges, body bowing off the blankets. Alex whimpered in return, biting his lip hard enough to taste copper, the sound pulling a throb from his own cock. The sweatpants were now a cruel cage as he shifted, thighs clenching to chase the ghost of friction. Robert arched his body desperate, hips thrusting wild into Cyrus’s fist, fucking himself on that warm, silk-rough hold, chasing movement, contact, anything to stoke the blaze, and Cyrus only laughed as he tightened his squeeze just enough to tease the edge, dark eyes flicking to Alex’s with a humble wink: watch this. He helped Robert out of his boxers next and Robert’s nine inches sprung out, hard as forged steel, pointing proudly to the rafters like a goddamn flagpole, veins engorged and pulsing like they were gonna burst under the skin. Cyrus hummed appreciation, his massive hand stroking base to tip once, slow, exploratory, thumb swirling the slick bead at the head, while Robert bucked again.
“You’re a big boy, aren’t you,” Cyrus hummed in appreciation, fingers splaying to test the girth, thumb tracing a lazy vein like he was savoring a fine scotch.
“Eh, I manage,” Robert replied, that typical Robert line dropping with false modest, but it didn’t land with his usual cocky punch. The drawl cracked just a hair breathless, his signature smirk faltering as lips trembled faint, breath panting hard and ragged like he’d run a five-alarm sprint. His warm brown eyes stayed glued to the sight of Cyrus’s fist claiming him, his bulk quivering subtle over the blanket as pre-cum dripped slick from the tip.
Cyrus’s touches were feather-light, almost not there, ghosts of fingertips skimming the engorged shaft like whispers from a half-forgotten dream, and even those were enough to make Robert’s cock twitch in delight. His cock jerked eager as if the mere suggestion of contact could teeter it to the edge. A single, fat drop of pre-cum welled from the slit then, glistening clear in the fire’s amber haze, and Cyrus gathered it deliberate with one large finger, before lifting it to his full lips, tasting it, tongue flicking out to savor the salt with a humble hum of approval. He returned that same hand to the cock without rush, wrapping loose again in that silk-warm hold, while his other pet Robert’s thigh as if calming a skittish dog, reassurance in the touch. Easy, big boy, I’ve got you.
“This is good, Rob?” Cyrus murmured.
“Y-yeah,” Robert rasped, the word punching out on a pant.
“Yeah? My hand feels good?”
“So good, Cy,” Robert groaned, voice booming deep, the praise spilling loose like he couldn’t not give it.
“Then why don’t you tell your husband?”
Robert’s eyes zeroed in on Alex then, sharpening through the haze like a beam cutting fog, Robert took in the vision of him, his frame tensed forward, the sweatpants tented obvious with the ache Alex wasn’t hiding, and a wild smile spread across his face.
“Tell your husband how good my hand feels on your cock, Rob,” Cyrus said again, gentle but coaxing. His massive fist gliding feather-light once more.
“His hand feels so good, baby,” Robert finally declared. “So... oh,” he moaned then, the sound fracturing deep when Cyrus stroked him again, face contorting in pleasure that bordered painful. “So. Fucking. Good.”
Alex only nodded vehemently, head bobbing like a man possessed, as if trying to say yeah, I get it, I feel it too. The thought hit him filthy and inevitable: Cyrus dropping to his knees next, taking Robert in his mouth, because how could he not, that huge cock at his mercy, irresistible and begging. But Cyrus must’ve been made from sterner stuff, forged in some unbreakable alloy of restraint and tease, because he dropped Robert’s cock instead. In a fluid motion, Cyrus snatched off his own jockstrap, white fabric whispering down his thighs like a surrender flag, the pouch snapping free to bare the monster it barely caged: thick, uncut, and swelling even fuller now, dark skin flushed at the crown where pre-cum beaded like a crown jewel. He balled the jockstrap in one fist then threw it gracefully to Alex, the bundle arcing perfect through the air to land dead-center on his lap. Alex held it, and as if his hands had a mind of his own, he took the jockstrap to his face and buried his nose into it, taking a deep breath on the scent of that perfect man’s must intimate part, the smell all hot and musky and Cyrus.
But he couldn’t do anything else, not with what he was seeing then: Cyrus fully bare now, that perfect body on full display, the jock’s absence leaving nothing to the imagination
It was simply the biggest cock he’d ever seen. Big wasn’t enough to describe it, huge didn’t do it justice; it was... magnificent? Divine? Maybe, because only a god from ancient legends could be hung like that. Ten inches at least, maybe more, veined and thick like a firefighter’s sledgehammer. Dark as polished teak, a shade richer than the rest of Cyrus’s skin. It curved only slight, a gentle hook that promised to hit every spot just right, and it looked cut, but Alex couldn’t be sure because it was absolutely rock-hard, fully stretched like a challenge issued to the room, the balls below drawn tight and smooth, hanging low like ripe fruit begging to be claimed.
“Fuck, Cy,” Robert said, voice snapping back to that normal after the shock of that weapon hit him like a cold hose-down, eyes locked on the sight like it was a new rig at the station. “You fuck people with that thing?”
“Only pussy,” Cyrus answered, smooth as always.
Of course he was bi, or pan, whatever else there was. He had to be, it’d be a crime against half the world’s population to waste perfection like that on one team alone.
“To men, I only bottom. Why, wanna try?” Cyrus asked then, but it was clear he was teasing.
“Hard pass,” Robert answered, laughing, but his hand reached down anyway, more fascinated than interested, wrapping around the base with a grip that barely closed, fingers straining to encircle the girth, thumb testing the vein like sizing a hose. “You seein’ this thing, babe?”
That time, Robert didn’t look at him. Cyrus did, his gaze sharpening on Alex still buried nose-deep in the jockstrap, inhaling the sweet, addictive scent as if intoxicated by it, the hot musk flooding his lungs like a drug he couldn’t quit. Cyrus smirked devilish then. “Look at him, Rob. This husband of yours is such a perv.”
Alex felt his face burning, but not even then did he pull his nose from the warm fabric.
“Told ya,” Robert replied, talking to Cyrus but with his eyes glued on Alex now, the connection crackling like static. “He gets off like crazy on this shit. You gonna let him keep that?”
“Of course I am,” Cyrus answered very casually as he put a hand on Robert’s broad chest to push him back to the bed with friendly command. He passed one leg over Robert’s body, climbing on top of him, and lowered his body close to Robert’s mouth. “This is all for him, remember?”
The fun finally begins and I’d hate for you to have to wait for the rest. Paid subscribers on my Substack can keep reading straight through to the finish. If you’ve been enjoying the ride, a subscription would be the sweetest Christmas gift you could give me. Thank you so much! ❄️❤️
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