The cleanup was messy. Water hissed against porcelain as I rinsed off, a dull ache between my thighs—the kind that lingered pleasantly, a reminder of just how *thick* Brody was. My reflection smirked back at me. I looked good, and felt even better—loose-limbed and sated, skin still tingling where his hands had been.
I pulled my clothes on, swapping the soiled shirt for a fresh one—loose fabric draping over my frame—and dabbed my damp skin dry before padding downstairs. The cabin’s wooden steps creaked faintly underfoot, the scent of pine and distant smoke clinging to the air. Downstairs, the living area buzzed with low chatter and the clink of glass. Derek stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, muddling something in a tumbler with the focus of a chemist. Brody lounged on the couch, his massive frame sinking into the cushions, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Matt crouched in front of the TV, jabbing at the remote with the frustration of a man battling ancient technology.
"—like you’ve never seen a fucking HDMI port," Derek drawled, not looking up from his mixing.
Matt flipped him off without turning. "Says the guy who thought ‘Bluetooth’ was a dental procedure until last year."
Derek smirked, shaking the tumbler with a sharp twist of his wrist. "And yet *I* got the fucking thing to work."
I slipped onto the couch beside Brody, close enough that our thighs brushed. Derek flicked me a glance before returning to his concoction. Matt grunted as the TV finally flickered to life, some sports channel blaring to life with a burst of color.
"Finally," Matt muttered, flopping onto the armchair.
Brody’s palm settled on my thigh, warm and heavy, his thumb absently tracing the seam of my jeans. I glanced at the others—Derek stirring drinks, Matt now rooting through a snack bag—but neither reacted. So I let myself sink into the touch, Brody’s fingers flexing slightly as if testing the give of my muscle beneath the denim.
The evenig went on and slowly morphed into something loose-limbed and warm, the kind of night where laughter came easy and the edges of the world softened under the glow of dim lights and alcohol. Derek had abandoned his bartender act in favor of just sloshing whatever he found into mismatched glasses, his smirk widening whenever someone winced at the concoction. Matt, sprawled sideways in his chair like a disassembled deck of cards, kept interjecting with increasingly improbable drinking rules—"Okay, new rule: if you say the word ‘snow,’ you *have* to take a shot, because *fuck* snow, it’s cold as balls out there"—which Brody took with alarming seriousness.
By the time we’d changed into sweats and stretched out around the kitchen table—empty bottles littering the surface like casualties of war—the conversation had devolved into the kind of stupid, tipsy chatter that only happens when men forget they’re supposed to be adults. Matt, now flushed and grinning, produced a deck of cards from *somewhere* (probably the same pocket he kept his eternal optimism in) and declared we were playing "the most fucked-up version of Uno you’ve ever seen."
It wasn’t Uno.
It was some abomination involving dares and increasingly ridiculous forfeits—"If you draw a red card, you have to tell everyone your most embarrassing gym story, and if it’s not embarrassing enough, you drink"—which Derek immediately twisted into something dirtier. "Fine," he said, smirking as he laid down a card, "but if you *skip*, you lose a layer."
Matt whooped, already tugging at the hem of his shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse. Brody, ever-literal, frowned down at his cards like they’d personally offended him. "So if I don’t have a red card to play… I take off my shirt?"
Derek’s grin was all teeth. "Exactly."
I should’ve seen where this was going.
But the game spiraled, as these things do—shirts came off (Brody’s with a shrug, like it was nothing; Matt’s with a theatrical flex), stories got filthier ("Okay, but have you *ever* gotten off in a public place?"), and the dares escalated until Derek, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, fixed me with a look that made my skin prickle. "Mika," he said, slow and deliberate, "truth or dare?"
I could’ve played it safe. Could’ve said "truth," could’ve deflected. But the alcohol hummed under my skin, and Brody’s thigh was warm against mine, and Derek’s gaze was a challenge I couldn’t resist.
"Dare," I said, lifting my chin.
Derek’s smirk widened. "I dare you," he said, pausing for effect, "to sit in Matt’s lap for the rest of the game."
The dare hung in the air like a daredevil mid-jump—taut with the promise of impact. Matt’s grin stretched wide enough to show molars, his thighs spreading slightly in invitation as he patted his lap. "C’mon, princess," he teased, voice syrup-thick with amusement. "Don’t leave me waiting."
Brody didn’t seem to care. His brain wasn’t wired for jealousy—just earnestness. Derek watched, eyes dark with amusement, swirling his drink like he already knew how this would play out. And Matt? Matt just grinned up at me, thighs splayed wider, fingers drumming against his bare stomach like he was counting down. *Fuck it.* I pushed off the chair the room tilting slightly with the movement—whether from alcohol or adrenaline, I couldn’t tell—and sauntered over. Matt’s smirk sharpened as I placed my ass firmly in his lap, deliberately shifting until I felt the heat of him beneath me. His hands hovered at my hips, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to grip or stay polite.
“Comfortable?” Matt asked, breath warm against my ear. His voice dropped, pitching low enough that the others wouldn’t catch it. “Or d’you need me to adjust?”
I rolled my hips back just to feel him tense—*oh, he was half-hard already*—and smirked when I noticed that he didn't know what to do with his hands. “Nah, your thighs make a decent chair,” I drawled, loud enough for the table to hear.
Derek snorted into his drink, his dark eyes flicking between Matt and Brody with that unnerving, amused precision. "Thighs are all Matt's got," he said, tilting his glass toward Brody like they were sharing a private joke.
Matt didn’t miss a beat. He squeezed my hips—just enough to make me shift in his lap—and grinned, pride dripping from his voice. "These thighs fuck like a horse, and they’ve got more power than you two combined."
I *highly* doubted that last part, but Derek just laughed, low and knowing, while Brody smiled like this was an old routine between them. And it probably was—the ease of it, the way Matt preened under the teasing, the way Derek’s smirk never quite faded.
Matt’s hands flexed around my waist, his fingers warm against the thin fabric of my shirt as he leaned forward to grab his cards. "Play fair," he murmured slyly , his breath hot against my ear. "No peeking at my hand."
I did—*partly*—but my mind was already elsewhere, caught on the image of Matt *power-fucking* someone with those thick, cyclist’s thighs of his. Would it be hot? The thought coiled low in my gut, unexpected but not unwelcome. For now, though, I settled for teasing him unconsciously, rolling my hips just enough to feel him stiffen further beneath me.
Derek watched us like a chess master observing a risky move. "Next dare," he announced, tapping a card against the table. "If you can’t play a number, you have to describe your last hookup—*vividly*."
Matt groaned, tossing his head back. "Fuck, man, that’s *mean*." But he was grinning, holding his cards behind my back; fingers brushing against my T-shirt as he brought them out from behind me—moving them to his right side—to take a look at them.
Brody, ever-earnest, frowned at his cards. "Do you mean, like… *details*?"
Derek’s smirk was lethal. "Oh, absolutely."
Matt snorted, shifting beneath me—*definitely* hard now—"Grab me a card Mika" he said, confidently leaning back into the chair, as if he didn't care that I could feel every twitch of his cock against my ass. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against my ribs, casual as anything, while I grabbed him a card, not the least bit bothered by the stiff cock beneath me.
Brody blinked at his cards like they’d personally offended him. "So...if I don’t got a number," he mumbled, brow furrowed, "I gotta talk about—" He gestured vaguely, cheeks flushing beneath his scruff. "Stuff."
Derek’s grin was all teeth. "Oh yeah. *Stuff*." He laid down a red seven with deliberate flair. "Starting with you, big guy. Last time you got laid. Play by play."
Brody’s throat worked. His eyes flicked to me—just for a second—before he cleared his throat. "Uh." His fingers flexed around his cards. "Well. There was...a bed."
Matt barked a laugh, his chest vibrating against my back. "*Bed*, holy shit, groundbreaking—"
"—*and*," Brody bulldozed on, earnest as a golden retriever, "it was...good. Real good." His thumb rubbed at the edge of his card, his voice dropping to a rough mutter. "Felt...tight. Warm."
Derek’s eyebrows climbed. "*Tight*," he repeated, slow. "That all?"
Brody’s ears went crimson. He ducked his head, shoulders hunching. "I—uh. Came. Hard." The admission came out strangled, like he’d rather confess to murder.
Matt wheezed, slapping the table. "Poetry, man. Pure fucking poetry—"
I rolled my hips back pointedly, cutting him off with a stifled grunt. "Your turn," I said sweetly, nodding toward Matt's cards. His fingers tightened imperceptibly on my waist—whether from irritation or interest, I couldn’t tell—but he played a yellow skip with exaggerated flourish.
Derek’s smirk deepened as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Matt," he purred, "truth or dare?"
Matt didn’t hesitate. "Dare. Always."
"Good." Derek’s gaze flicked to where I sat, then back up, slow as syrup. "I dare you to tell us if you’ve got a hard-on right now."
I didn’t have to see Matt’s face to know he was smirking—it was there in the way his fingers twitched against my hips, the way his breath hitched just slightly before he answered, voice dripping with that trademark shit-eating grin of his. "Who wouldn’t, with this ass parked on ‘em?" His palm smacked my thigh for emphasis, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or girl sittin’ on me, it’s kinda hot." He shrugged, the motion jostling me slightly in his lap. "No offense, Brody. Just sayin’."
Derek exhaled through his nose, amused. "That’s not an answer."
"It’s *my* answer," Matt shot back, thumb brushing the hem of my shirt like he wasn’t even thinking about it. His cock twitched beneath me—*definitely* hard—and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The audacity of him, sitting there like a smug goddamn statue while his body betrayed him.
Brody blinked, gaze darting between us like he was trying to parse a foreign language. "So… that’s a yes?"
Matt rolled his eyes—*exaggerated*, like Brody was missing the point—but his hips shifted subtly, pressing up just enough to make sure I *felt* him. "Congrats, Detective Brody," he drawled. "You cracked the case."
Derek’s smirk was a blade. "What would your girl say if she saw you now?" he asked Matt, swirling his drink with deliberate nonchalance.
Matt didn’t flinch. Just grinned, lazy and unbothered. "It's guys' night," he said, shrugging like that explained everything. "She knows the rules—no take-backs, no complaints." His thumb brushed the bare strip of skin where my shirt had ridden up, casual as a man adjusting his watch. "Besides," he added, smirk deepening, "its not cheating if it's just bros being bros, right?"
Derek smiled, slow and knowing, his fingers steepled against his lips as his gaze flicked between Matt and me. "You *do* know," he began, voice smooth as poured bourbon, "technically he's not a 'bro,' right?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something sharper than amusement. "And he's gay."
The words hung in the air like a dare wrapped in velvet. Matt didn't stiffen beneath me—if anything, his thighs relaxed, spreading wider as if to say *and?*
"So?" Matt countered, grinning. "Rules don't specify orientation, just vibes."
Derek exhaled sharply through his nose—half amusement, half exasperation—before flipping a card onto the table with deliberate precision. "Touché," he conceded, nodding toward Matt like he'd scored a point in some invisible game.
I barely had time to register the exchange before Brody, silent and forgotten in the corner, laid down his last card with a soft *tap*.
Uno.
Our eyes fell on Brody.
"...No fucking way," Matt muttered, squinting at the discarded pile like it might suddenly rearrange itself.
Brody blinked, forehead creasing as if surprised by his own victory. "I... won?"
Derek's slow, disbelieving chuckle broke the silence. "Brody won," he mused, shaking his head. " I guess Mika's free from Matt's lap now." His fingers drummed against the rim of his glass, eyes flicking to me with undisguised amusement. "Unless he'd rather stay seated on our cyclist."
Heat prickled up my neck. The implication hung there, sticky-sweet, but I refused to seem *too* eager. With deliberate slowness, I rocked back onto Matt's lap one last time—just enough to feel him stiffen beneath me—before standing.
"Thanks for freeing me, Brody," I said, smoothing my shirt with exaggerated innocence before dropping right back onto the chair beside him.
Matt's laugh was loud and unfiltered. "Bullshit!" he crowed, pointing at me. "You *wanted* an out!"
Derek just watched, dark eyes glinting, while Brody—bless his oblivious heart—nodded solemnly like I'd actually meant it.
The evening dissolved into drunken chaos shortly after, dares forgotten in favor of swapping increasingly ridiculous stories.
An hour later, we staggered upstairs, the wooden steps groaning under our combined weight. Brody collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, his massive frame sinking into the mattress like it was made of clouds. By the time I'd brushed my teeth and changed, he was already half-asleep, one arm flung over his face, soft snores rumbling in his chest.
Adrenaline still hummed under my skin like a live wire, the pleasant buzz of alcohol and lust keeping exhaustion at bay. Brody was already sprawled out, dead to the world—his arm slung over his face, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths—so a second round with him wasn’t happening. But my body thrummed with restless energy, and the memory of Matt’s cock stiffening beneath me lingered like an unspoken dare. The idea coiled in my gut, warm and insistent: *maybe I could get him to fool around with me.* He’d been into it—bad at hiding it, really—and that careless confidence of his was its own kind of temptation.
I changed quietly, fingers skimming over the jockstrap I’d packed—*for Brody’s eyes, originally*—before slipping it on. A T-shirt and sweatpants—worn to conceal my intentions at first glance—completed the ensemble. Brody didn’t stir as I eased the door shut behind me, the click soft as a held breath. Four steps carried me to Matt’s door. Derek’s room was dark, silent; but beneath Matt’s door, a thin line of light spilled onto the wooden floor.
I didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and stepped inside, the sight hitting me like a punch to the gut: Matt sprawled on the bed, gloriously nude, legs splayed wide, duvet shoved aside. One hand gripped his cock—*thick, flushed, curving slightly upward*—while the other scrolled lazily on his phone. The shock that flickered across his face lasted half a second before dissolving into that trademark smirk, his grip loosening as he let his cock spring free against his stomach. The duvet slid further aside, revealing the full span of his thighs—*dense, corded muscle, the kind built from grinding up mountain passes*—and the sharp V of his hips leading to abs that looked carved by a chisel.
"*The fuck*," Matt muttered—not angry, just surprised—before his grin widened, cock twitching against his stomach as he took in my stare. "Lost, princess?"
I let my gaze drag slowly up his body, lingering on the way his thighs flexed when he shifted, the way his chest rose with each breath—*smaller than Brody’s, but no less defined*. "Just admiring the view," I said, leaning against the doorframe like I had all the time in the world.
Matt chuckled, low and rough, his free hand patting the space beside him. "Well, since you’re here," he drawled, thumb brushing the head of his cock, "*might as well* make yourself useful."
The invitation was casual—as if he were actually happy about the new circumstances. I pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room with deliberate slowness, my pulse hammering beneath my skin. His eyes tracked me, dark with amusement, but there was something else there too—*interest, anticipation*—as I stopped at the edge of the bed.
"*Help you out*?" I echoed, feigning innocence even as my fingers hooked into the waistband of my sweatpants. "Thought you had it covered."
Matt’s smirk sharpened. He lifted his phone slightly—*porn paused mid-scene*—before tossing it aside. "Nah," he said, stretching his arms behind his head, biceps flexing. "*Could* use a hand, though." His gaze dropped pointedly to my crotch, then back up. "Or a mouth. Whichever."
The audacity of him—*laid out like a fucking buffet, offering himself up like it was nothing*—sent heat curling low in my gut. I could’ve played coy, could’ve dragged it out. But the alcohol thrumming in my veins stripped away the pretense. With a slow exhale, I tugged my sweatpants down and stepped ut of em—*black, snug, leaving nothing to the imagination*—and watched Matt’s breath hitch.
"*Fuck*," he muttered, eyes raking over me. "You *planned* this." It wasn't a question—just a lazy observation tossed out between us like a crumpled shirt on the floor. I didn't answer, already distracted by the flex of his thighs as he shifted, the way his cock twitched against his stomach like it was nodding along to some silent agreement. His smirk deepened when I reached for him, fingertips grazing the hot, smooth skin of his inner thigh.
My attention was fixed on his body now—the ripple of his abs as he breathed, the way his cock curved against his stomach, flushed and leaking. "So," I murmured, fingers skating higher along his inner thigh, "mouth or hand the only options?"
Matt huffed a laugh, tilting his head back against the pillows. "What, you wanna revisit my *power-fucking* comment?" His smirk was filthy, knowing. "That the direction you’re leaning? Want me to blow your back out?"
The heat in my gut coiled tighter. "Wouldn’t say no," I admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it didn’t matter, even as my pulse thudded in my throat.
Matt’s grin widened. He hooked a finger into the waistband of my jockstrap, tugging lightly. "You’re *real* fuckin’ bold for someone sneaking into my room," he mused. "What about Brody?"
I rolled my eyes. "He’s snoring loud enough to drown out a freight train."
Matt chuckled, but his grip tightened—just enough to make me still. "And your moral compass?"
"Buried under your thighs," I shot back, nodding toward his legs.
That got a laugh out of him—rough and unfiltered—before he sobered, thumb brushing my hipbone. "For the record," he said, voice dropping, "it’s cheating if we go all the way."
I arched a brow. "And?"
Matt winked. "I’ve cheated before. Told my girl every time. She forgives me—she’s hooked on me anyway. Just don’t get attached afterwards." His smirk turned sharp as he hooked a finger into my jockstrap and tugged. "And don’t go crying to me later about guilt."
I rolled my eyes and shrugged. "You're the one cheating," I murmured, fingers trailing up the dense muscle of his thigh. "I don't owe you shit after this."
Matt's grin widened—genuine, almost relieved—as if he'd been waiting for that exact answer. His grip on my jockstrap tightened, yanking me forward until my knees hit the mattress. "Good," he breathed, voice rough. "Now stop overthinking with that pretty head of yours and *get to work*, or I'm finishing this with my hand and that porn clip."
The command sent heat pooling low in my stomach. I didn't hesitate—peeling my shirt off with deliberate slowness, letting the fabric drag across my chest before dropping it to the floor. The jockstrap stayed, black straps cutting into my hips, framing my ass just right when I turned to kneel on the mattress. Matt's gaze burned over me—hungry, appreciative—before settling on my mouth as I leaned in, tongue darting out to trace the swollen head of his cock. Salty-bitter precome hit my tongue, thick and warm, the musk of him filling my nostrils—clean sweat and something darker. His thighs tensed beneath my palms, muscles twitching like live wires as I took him deeper, savoring the weight of him on my tongue, the way his cock pulsed against the roof of my mouth.
"*Fuck*," he hissed, fingers tangling in my hair—not yanking, not yet, just holding me there as I worked him slow, lips stretched tight around his girth. His other hand palmed the back of my neck, thumb pressing into the knob of my spine like he was marking the spot for later. The duvet rustled as he shifted, thighs spreading wider, heels digging into the mattress to tilt his hips up. "Look at you," he murmured, voice rough as gravel. "Pretty fucking mouth made for this." His grip tightened, guiding me down until my nose brushed his skin, my throat fluttering around him.
The stretch burned—good, *so good*—and I moaned around him, vibrations drawing a sharp gasp from Matt. His abs flexed as he lifted his hips, fucking shallowly into my mouth, each thrust measured and deliberate, testing my limits. I could feel the power coiled in his thighs—the same strength that powered him up mountain passes now driving his cock deeper, relentless. When I gagged, he eased back just enough to let me breathe, thumb swiping spit from my chin before pushing it back into my mouth. "Quiet," he reminded me, voice low, though his smirk softened the order. "Don't wanna wake Sleeping Beauty next door."
I nodded, lips sealing around him again, tongue pressing along the thick vein underneath as I sucked him deep. His taste flooded my mouth—salt and skin and something uniquely *him*—and I hollowed my cheeks, swallowing around the head every time he pulled back. Matt's breath stuttered, his free hand roaming down my back to grip the strap of my jock, fingers dipping beneath the elastic to knead the curve of my ass. "Fuck, you're *good* at this," he muttered, hips rolling up in a slow, sinuous grind that had me seeing stars. "Bet you practiced on Brody, huh? Bet he came *fast*."
The mention of Brody sent a jolt through me—guilt and excitement, I couldn't tell if he knew or just dirty talked—but Matt didn't give me time to dwell. His grip in my hair tightened, yanking me forward as he thrust up hard, cock hitting the back of my throat. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I didn't pull away, letting him use my mouth like it was his right. His thighs trembled against my ribs, muscles taut as bowstrings, and when he finally stilled, buried to the hilt, his groan was low and satisfied. "*Perfect*," he breathed, holding me there for a heartbeat before easing back. "Now—*fuck*—do that again."
I obeyed, dragging my tongue along his shaft as I pulled off, then sinking back down, savoring every inch. Matt's control frayed with each pass—his thrusts growing rougher, less measured, until he was fucking my mouth in earnest, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. His fingers twisted in my hair, guiding my pace, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. "Gonna come," he warned, voice strained. "Swallow it all, yeah? Every fucking drop."
I nodded, lips stretched wide, and when he came—hot and thick, pulsing down my throat—I swallowed greedily, chasing the bitter-salt of him with my tongue until he shuddered and pushed me off. Matt collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, one arm slung over his eyes as he caught his breath. His thighs were still tense, twitching occasionally, and his cock lay spent against his stomach, glistening under the dim light.
"*Fuck*," he said again, voice wrecked, and I couldn't help but smirk, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Good?" I teased, echoing Brody's earnest question from earlier.
Matt cracked one eye open, smirk returning. "Shut up," he muttered, his arms back to their casual sprawl behind his head like he was posing for a Renaissance painting—all sculpted angles and languid confidence. His chest rose and fell steadily, the sheen of sweat catching the lamplight in a way that made his skin glow like polished bronze. He knew exactly how good he looked, and worse—he knew *I* knew. The bastard.
I stood up on my knees, balancing on the mattress to look down at him properly. His smirk deepened when my gaze lingered on the faint trail of come still glistening on his stomach. "Enjoying the view?" he drawled, flexing his abs just enough to make them ripple.
"Eh." I shrugged, wiping my mouth again for effect. "Brody's got you beat in the 'marble statue' department." The lie tasted sweet—Matt's body was its own kind of perfect, compact and powerful, built for endurance rather than sheer mass.
Matt snorted, kicking my thigh lightly with his bare foot. "Bullshit. You were drooling."
"Pre-come," I corrected, grinning when he flipped me off.
I slid off the bed, my knees protesting slightly from kneeling so long. Matt watched me with half-lidded amusement, his fingers laced behind his head like he had all the time in the world.
Matt's smirk deepened as I tugged my shirt back on, the fabric sliding over my sweat-damp skin with a whisper. He didn't move from his sprawl—just watched with that infuriating, knowing expression, one arm crooked behind his head like he was posing for a magazine spread. His thighs were still spread wide, muscles lax now but no less imposing, the duvet crumpled beneath him like an afterthought.
I stepped into my sweatpants with deliberate slowness, catching his gaze lingering on the curve of my ass as I bent to adjust the waistband. The jockstrap stayed hidden beneath, but the way his eyes darkened told me he hadn't forgotten it was there.
"Shame you didn't use my ass this time," I said, letting my voice drop into something lower, teasing. "Maybe next time you'll take the chance. We've got the whole weekend, after all."
Matt's eyebrows shot up, but I didn't give him time to reply—just slipped out, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
