The message glowed on my phone screen like a bomb waiting to detonate.
Hey. It's Derek. I'm in town this weekend. Would love to catch up. Maybe drinks?
I stared at those eleven words until they blurred, until the wine glass in my hand felt too heavy, until the warm weight of Marcus's thigh pressed against mine on the couch suddenly felt like an anchor instead of a comfort.
"Who's that?" Marcus asked, his voice casual, his hand never stopping its lazy circles on my leg. He was watching some documentary about architecture—his passion, his profession, the thing that made his sharp mind come alive. He didn't look at me when he asked. He trusted me.
That trust felt like a weight.
"Ex," I said, turning the phone to show him. "From three years ago."
Marcus's hand stilled. On the television, someone was explaining the load-bearing properties of Gothic arches, but the room had gone silent in a different way. Marcus turned his head slowly, his dark eyes—usually so warm, so full of gentle humor—narrowing as they read the message.
"Derek," he said, tasting the name like something bitter. "The Derek."
"The Derek," I confirmed.
Marcus set his wine glass down on the coffee table with deliberate precision. He turned fully to face me, his body language shifting from relaxed boyfriend to something more guarded. "The one you told me about. The one who used to—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "The rough one."
I felt heat rise to my face, and lower, to places that had no business responding to a memory while my current boyfriend sat right beside me. But Derek wasn't just a memory. Derek was a force of nature, a category five hurricane that had swept through my life at twenty-four and left me changed. He'd been older, more experienced, dominant in ways I'd never experienced before. He'd tied me up, held me down, made me beg for things I hadn't known I wanted. He'd also been impossible—jealous, possessive, unable to separate passion from control in healthy ways. We'd burned out in a spectacular explosion of screaming and broken glass and tears.
But the sex...
"The sex was intense," I said quietly, because Marcus deserved honesty. "You know that. I told you everything."
"Everything," Marcus repeated, and I heard the edge in his voice. "Including how he used to fuck you until you couldn't walk? Including how he made you scream his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear? Including that he's the standard you measure every other lover against?"
"Marcus—"
"No, it's fine." He picked up his wine again, drank deeply. His hand was steady, but I knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had shifted. "It's fine that my boyfriend of eighteen months still gets a certain look in his eyes when he talks about his ex. A look I've never been able to put there."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He set the glass down again, harder this time. "I'm the gentle one, right? The one who asks if you're comfortable, if you need more lube, if the angle is good. I'm the considerate boyfriend. And Derek—" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Derek just took what he wanted. Threw you against walls. Fucked you raw. Made you his."
The words hung between us, charged and dangerous. Because Marcus wasn't wrong. He was attentive, tender, the kind of lover who memorized my body like a sacred text, who learned every spot that made me gasp and spent hours worshipping them. He made love like an artist—deliberate, thoughtful, beautiful.
Derek had fucked like a storm—unpredictable, violent, overwhelming.
And sometimes, in the dark, when Marcus was traveling for work and I was alone with my hand and my memories, it was Derek's face I saw. Derek's voice in my ear. Derek's rough hands pinning my wrists.
"I love you," I said, reaching for Marcus's hand. "You know I do."
"Do I?" He didn't pull away, but he didn't interlace his fingers with mine either. "Because right now, you're holding that phone like it's a lifeline, and you're looking at that message like you're seventeen and just got a text from the prom king."
I looked down at my hand, at the phone still clutched in it, and realized he was right. My knuckles were white. My heart was racing. And somewhere deep in my gut, a traitorous pulse of arousal was beating in time with my anxiety.
"Maybe," I heard myself say, the wine making me brave, making me stupid, "maybe I need to see him."
Marcus went very still. "See him."
"Closure," I lied, because it wasn't closure I wanted. It was comparison. It was the dangerous, intoxicating idea of having them both in the same room, feeling the weight of two desires focused on me. "Or maybe—"
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe I want to see you fight for me."
The words dropped between us like stones into still water. Marcus's eyes widened, then darkened, something shifting in their depths that I couldn't quite read.
"You want me to fight," he said slowly, "with your ex. For you."
"I want to feel what it's like," I whispered, leaning closer, my voice dropping to something intimate and raw, "when the man I love has to prove he's the one who owns me now. I want to see you jealous, Marcus. I want to see what happens when you stop being gentle."
His breathing had changed. I could see it in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his pupils dilated despite the warm lamplight. Marcus was an architect, a thinker, a man who approached life with careful plans and measured responses. But beneath that civilized exterior, I'd always sensed something else—something hungry and possessive that he kept carefully chained.
"You're playing with fire," he said, his voice rougher than before.
"I know."
"You think you want this. You think you want to see me... unleashed." He leaned in, his hand finally moving, finally touching—his fingers wrapping around my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "But you don't know what you're asking for. You don't know what I'm capable of when I'm not being careful."
"Show me," I breathed.
His thumb traced my lower lip, pressed inside just enough to make me open for him. "And Derek? What about him? You want him here too? In our home? In our bed?"
The image flashed through my mind—Derek's rough hands, Marcus's careful ones, both on my body at once. The jealousy I'd seen simmering in Marcus's eyes turned outward, aimed at a rival. The competition. The need to outdo, to claim, to possess.
"Yes," I whispered.
Marcus's grip tightened on my jaw. "You're a little slut, aren't you? Wanting two men at once. Wanting us to fight over you like dogs over a bone."
I moaned, the crudeness of it shocking and arousing coming from his usually refined mouth. "Yes."
He held my gaze for a long moment, searching, then released me abruptly. "Send the text," he said, his voice tight with control. "Tell him to come here. Saturday. Eight o'clock." He stood, adjusting himself in his trousers, and I saw that he was hard—painfully, obviously hard. "I'm going to take a shower. A cold one. And when I get out, you better be ready to explain exactly what you've just set in motion."
He walked away, his posture rigid, and I sat trembling on the couch, my phone in my hand, my cock straining against my sweatpants. This was already spiraling beyond anything I'd imagined. I'd expected hesitation, maybe refusal, a rational conversation about boundaries and the past staying in the past.
Instead, I'd poked a bear. And the bear was hungry.
I typed out the message with shaking hands. Drinks Saturday. My place. Bring wine. My boyfriend will be here too.
The reply came in thirty seconds. Boyfriend? This should be interesting. See you then, baby. I've missed that tight ass.
I should have been offended. Should have corrected him, reminded him that I wasn't his anymore, that those days were over. Instead, I felt a throb of arousal so intense I had to press my palm against my erection through my pants, had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
I'd missed him too. Missed the way he took without asking. Missed being owned.
The shower started upstairs, and I imagined Marcus standing under the cold spray, his hand wrapped around his cock, trying to think about anything but what Saturday would bring. I knew him well enough to know he wouldn't succeed. He'd be hard all night now, imagining scenarios, planning his approach, determined to prove that he could fuck me just as thoroughly as any ex-boyfriend ever had.
I went to join him. The bathroom was steamy—he'd given up on the cold water already. Through the frosted glass of the shower enclosure, I could see his silhouette, one hand braced against the tile, the other moving rhythmically.
"Marcus," I said, stripping off my clothes.
He didn't stop. "You want to watch? Is that part of this game? You want to see what you've done to me?"
I pulled the door open and stepped inside. The water was hot, almost too hot, pounding down on his shoulders as he turned to face me. His hand was still on his cock—thick, curved slightly upward, the head flushed dark with blood. He was beautiful, my Marcus, all lean lines and elegant proportions, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire and something darker.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," I said, reaching for him.
He caught my wrist before I could touch him, spinning me around and pressing me face-first against the tile. The shock of the cold ceramic against my chest made me gasp, but his body heat against my back was searing. He still had his cock in his hand, and he ground it against my ass, not entering, just rubbing, letting me feel how hard he was, how ready.
"I'm thinking," he growled in my ear, his voice nothing like his usual cultured tones, "about how I'm going to destroy you on Saturday. How I'm going to make you forget he ever existed. How I'm going to fuck you so thoroughly, so completely, that when you come, it'll be my name you scream, and only mine."
"Marcus—"
He bit my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. "And then," he continued, his hand sliding around to grip my cock, "after I've had my fill, I'm going to watch him try to do better. I'm going to watch him fuck you, and I'm going to see the look on his face when he realizes that even his best isn't enough anymore. Because you're mine now. Body and soul. And I'm going to make sure he knows it."
He stroked me roughly, his grip tight and demanding, so different from his usual careful touch. I bucked into his hand, my forehead pressed against the tile, water streaming down around us. "Please," I whimpered.
"Please what? Please fuck you? Now? Before he even gets here?" Marcus laughed, dark and dangerous. "No. You're going to wait. You're going to spend the next two days thinking about what's coming. Thinking about how it's going to feel to have both of us inside you. And you're not going to touch yourself. You're not going to come. That first orgasm belongs to me on Saturday night. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I gasped, so close already, my balls tightening.
He released me abruptly, stepping back, leaving me panting and desperate against the wall. "Good," he said, his voice returning to something closer to normal, though his eyes were still wild. "Now wash up and come to bed. If you're good, I might let you suck me off before we sleep. But no coming for you. Not until Saturday."
He stepped out of the shower, leaving me trembling and aching, my cock throbbing with denied release. I stayed under the water until it ran cold, trying to think, trying to process what I'd unleashed.
But all I could think about was Saturday. About Derek's rough hands and Marcus's newfound dominance. About being caught between them, claimed by both, possessed completely.
I didn't sleep that night. Neither did Marcus. We lay in bed, inches apart but not touching, both of us hard, both of us waiting, the air between us charged with anticipation and something that felt perilously close to violence.
Two days. Forty-eight hours. And then everything would change.
Saturday arrived with the force of a gathering storm.
I spent the day in a state of heightened awareness, every nerve ending raw, every touch of fabric against my skin feeling like too much. Marcus had left early—"to work," he'd said, though I suspected he was preparing, planning, psyching himself up for whatever tonight would become. He'd kissed me goodbye at the door, a hard, claiming kiss that left my lips bruised and my mind spinning.
"Be ready," he'd whispered against my mouth. "Eight o'clock. Don't wear anything I can't tear off you."
I'd spent the afternoon grooming myself meticulously—showering, shaving, preparing my body the way I knew both men would appreciate. I chose my outfit carefully: black jeans that hugged my ass, a white button-down that I left open at the collar, no underwear. The fabric of the jeans against my bare cock was a constant, teasing reminder of what was coming.
At 7:45, I poured myself a glass of whiskey. At 7:52, I poured a second. At 7:58, the doorbell rang.
Marcus wasn't home yet.
I opened the door to find Derek standing on my porch, looking unfairly good in a black button-down that stretched across shoulders I remembered gripping while he pounded into me. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, his stubble more deliberate, but those hazel eyes were the same—predatory, assessing, already stripping me bare.
"Hey, baby," he said, like no time had passed, and pulled me into a hug that lasted three seconds too long. I felt his hand slide down to the small of my back, pressing me close enough to feel that he was already half-hard. "You look fucking edible."
"Derek," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "Come in. Marcus isn't here yet."
"Perfect," he murmured, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He didn't give me space. He crowded me against the wall, his body big and warm and familiar, his hand finding my hip and squeezing. "Gives us time to catch up properly."
"Derek—"
"Don't." He cut me off, his mouth descending on mine before I could protest.
It was exactly as I remembered—rough, demanding, his tongue forcing my lips apart while his hands pinned my wrists above my head against the wall. I moaned into it, helpless, my body betraying me by arching into his touch, my cock hardening instantly against his thigh.
"You still taste the same," he growled against my mouth, grinding his hips into mine. "Still get hard for me like a good little slut. Does your boyfriend know what you really need? Does he know how to handle this hungry mouth of yours?"
"He's—" I tried to speak, but Derek was kissing me again, deeper, his hand sliding down to grip my ass hard enough to bruise.
"He's not here," Derek finished. "I am. And I've been thinking about this tight ass for three years. Thinking about how you used to beg me to fill it. Thinking about the sounds you make when you're being properly fucked."
His hand slipped between us, palming my cock through my jeans, and I gasped, my head falling back against the wall. "Derek, please, we should wait—"
"For what? For some architect to give us permission?" He laughed, dark and dangerous, his fingers working my zipper down. "I don't need permission to take what's mine. And you, baby—you've always been mine. You just needed to remember."
His hand wrapped around my bare cock, and I saw stars. Three years of memory flooded back—his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he owned me completely when we were together. I was panting, writhing against the wall, my earlier resolve crumbling.
"That's it," Derek encouraged, stroking me slowly, teasingly. "Let me feel how much you missed me. Show me."
I was on the verge of breaking, of letting him take me right there against the wall, when the front door opened.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his keys still in his hand, his eyes taking in the scene—me pinned against the wall, Derek's hand down my pants, my face flushed and desperate. For a moment, nobody moved. The air went crystalline with tension.
Then Marcus smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Starting without me?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm. He closed the door behind him and set his keys on the console table with deliberate precision. "I thought we agreed to wait."
Derek didn't remove his hand. If anything, he tightened his grip, making me whimper. "He needed it," Derek said, casual as discussing the weather. "You left him all worked up. What kind of boyfriend does that?"
"The kind who knows how to build anticipation," Marcus replied, crossing the room slowly, his gait predatory. "The kind who understands that delayed gratification makes the release so much sweeter." He stopped inches from us, his eyes locked on mine. "Isn't that right, love?"
"I—" I couldn't form words, caught between Derek's rough hand on my cock and Marcus's intense gaze.
Marcus reached out, his fingers threading through my hair, gripping tight and pulling my head back to expose my throat. "Answer me," he commanded. "Do you want to come like this? Quick and dirty against the wall? Or do you want to wait for what I have planned?"
Derek stroked me faster, challenging, his eyes never leaving Marcus's face. "He wants to come," Derek said. "Don't you, baby? You want to shoot all over my hand right now, while your boyfriend watches."
"Yes," I gasped, because I did, I wanted it so badly, my balls tight and aching.
Marcus's grip in my hair tightened painfully. "No," he said, and his other hand moved, wrapping around Derek's wrist and pulling his hand away from my cock with force I didn't know he possessed. "Not yet. Not like this."
Derek let him, stepping back with a laugh that was half-surprise, half-respect. "Well, well. The gentle architect has teeth after all."
"You have no idea," Marcus said, and then he kissed me.
It was nothing like Derek's assault. This was a claiming, a brand, his tongue sweeping through my mouth with deliberate thoroughness, erasing Derek's taste and replacing it with his own. His hand was still in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and I melted into it, into him, my hands finding his chest and clutching at his sweater.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard. "Mine," he said quietly, for me alone. Then, louder: "Drinks. We were going to have drinks. Derek, you brought wine?"
Derek held up a bottle, his eyes gleaming with new interest. "Cabernet. Your favorite, if I remember correctly," he said to me, but his gaze was on Marcus, reassessing.
"Perfect," Marcus said, his arm sliding around my waist and pulling me away from the wall, away from Derek. "Let's go to the living room. We have all night."
The wine helped. Or maybe it just lowered inhibitions enough that the tension shifted from dangerous to erotic, a game with rules still being written.
We sat on the couch—me in the middle, Marcus on my left, Derek on my right. The documentary Marcus had been watching on Thursday was gone, replaced by low music and the amber glow of the table lamp. We drank, and we talked, and the two men circled each other verbally, trading barbed compliments and loaded questions.
"So," Marcus said, swirling his wine, "Derek. What do you do?"
"Construction," Derek replied, his arm draped along the back of the couch behind me, his fingers brushing my shoulder. "Physical work. Keeps me in shape." He flexed slightly, and I remembered exactly how those muscles felt moving over me, pinning me down.
"How... blue collar," Marcus said, not unkindly, but with a subtle emphasis that made Derek's eyes narrow.
"And you design buildings," Derek returned. "How... theoretical. Tell me, when you're drawing your little lines on paper, do you ever wonder what it feels like to actually build something? To get your hands dirty?"
"I build plenty," Marcus said, his hand finding my thigh, squeezing. "I built this home. This life. This relationship." He looked directly at Derek. "I built something that lasts."
"Relationships are like buildings," Derek mused, his hand dropping to my other thigh, higher than Marcus's, his fingers brushing the inseam of my jeans. "They need stress testing. You never know how strong they really are until you push them to their limits."
"Is that what you're here to do?" Marcus asked, his voice dropping. "Stress test us?"
"I'm here to remind him," Derek said, his fingers creeping higher, pressing against the hard line of my cock through the denim, "of what he's been missing. Of what you can't give him."
Marcus's hand mirrored the movement, both men now gripping me through my pants, their hands nearly touching. "And what can't I give him?"
"Intensity," Derek said. "Danger. The edge of pain that makes pleasure sharp enough to cut."
"You're wrong," Marcus replied, and his hand moved to my zipper, pulling it down with deliberate slowness. "I can give him all of that. I just choose when. I choose how. I don't need to dominate every moment to feel like a man." He reached inside my jeans, his fingers wrapping around my bare cock, and I gasped, arching into his touch. "I can be gentle when I want to be. And I can be rough when he needs it."
Derek watched Marcus's hand moving on me, his own hand joining, both of them stroking me now, competing, comparing grips and rhythms. "Show me," Derek challenged. "Show me this rough side. Because right now, all I see is a man who's afraid to really take what he wants."
Marcus's eyes darkened. He withdrew his hand from my pants and stood abruptly, pulling me up with him. "Bedroom," he commanded. "Now. Both of you."
We moved like a single organism, wine forgotten, pretense abandoned. In the hallway, Derek grabbed me again, spinning me against the wall and crushing his mouth to mine, his hand back down my pants, stroking me roughly. I moaned into his mouth, helpless, already so aroused I felt like I might explode.
"Easy," Marcus said from behind us, and I felt his presence close, his body heat against my back. "He's not just yours anymore."
Derek broke the kiss, his eyes flashing. "You want to share? Fine. But I'm going first. I need to feel him around me again. Need to remind him what he's been missing."
"And I need to remind him what he has now," Marcus countered, his hands sliding around my waist, undoing my button and pulling my jeans down. "Someone who actually cares if he comes."
They stripped me between them, Derek yanking my shirt over my head while Marcus pulled my jeans off completely, leaving me naked in the hallway, trembling, caught between their competing desires.
"Look at you," Derek murmured, cupping my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Still so fucking pretty when you're scared. Tell me you want this."
"I want this," I breathed.
"Both of us?"
"Both of you. Please."
Marcus's mouth found my ass then, his tongue circling my hole with the thorough, patient attention he gave everything. I cried out, my knees buckling, but Derek held me up, his hand wrapping around my throat—not choking, just holding, claiming.
"That's my boy," Derek growled. "Let him get you ready for me. Because I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
"And then I'm going to fuck you so well you remember mine," Marcus added, his voice muffled, his tongue pushing inside me now, wet and insistent.
They moved me to the bedroom like that, Derek half-carrying me while Marcus followed, shedding his own clothes. By the time we reached the bed, we were all naked, all hard, all breathing like we'd run a marathon.
Derek pushed me onto the bed on my hands and knees, positioning himself behind me. "Condom," Marcus said sharply, tossing one from the nightstand.
Derek caught it, but his eyes stayed on mine in the mirror across the room. "I used to fuck him raw," he said, tearing the packet open. "Fill him up until it dripped out of him."
"Not anymore," Marcus said, climbing onto the bed in front of me, his cock bobbing inches from my face. "Now he gets filled on my schedule. My terms."
Derek rolled the condom on, slicking himself with lube from the bottle Marcus handed over. "We'll see how long you last," he muttered, positioning himself at my entrance.
The first push was brutal—Derek never believed in gradual. He forced his way in on one long, relentless stroke, not stopping until his hips were flush against my ass. I screamed into the mattress, my fingers clawing at the sheets, overwhelmed by the stretch and burn of being filled so completely.
"Fuck, yes," Derek groaned, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises I'd find tomorrow. "Still so tight. Still mine."
Marcus grabbed my hair, pulling my head up, forcing me to look at him. "Mine," he corrected, and guided his cock to my lips.
I opened for him eagerly, desperate for the distraction as Derek began to move—hard, punishing thrusts that rocked my whole body forward, driving me deeper onto Marcus's cock. They found a rhythm, Derek pulling out as Marcus pushed in, so I was never empty, always full, always being claimed from both ends.
"Look at you," Marcus murmured, his thumb tracing my stretched lips around his shaft. "Taking us both like you were made for this. Is this what you wanted? To be our little fucktoy for the night?"
I moaned my agreement, the vibration making Marcus hiss and thrust deeper into my throat. Derek picked up his pace, his hips slapping against my ass with each stroke, his fingers digging into my flesh.
"You feel that?" Derek grunted, angling his thrusts to hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. "That's me. Right there. No one else fucks you like this."
Marcus pulled out of my mouth, his cock slick and throbbing, and leaned down to kiss me—messy, deep, tasting of wine and desire. "But no one else loves you like I do," he whispered against my lips. "Remember that when you come."
Derek's hand came down on my ass, sharp and stinging. "Focus," he commanded. "You're not coming until I say."
He pounded into me harder, the bed frame slamming against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I was babbling now, incoherent pleas and curses, my cock untouched and leaking onto the sheets below me, so close to the edge I could taste it.
"Please," I begged. "Please, Derek, I need—"
"What do you need?" he demanded, slowing his strokes to a torturous grind.
"To come. Please let me come."
"And who makes you come?" He pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside, making me whimper at the emptiness.
"You. Both of you. Please—"
He slammed back in, hitting my prostate dead-on, and I saw white. "Come," he ordered. "Come now."
I came untouched, my body convulsing, my orgasm ripping through me with such force I thought I might pass out. Derek kept fucking me through it, prolonging the waves of pleasure until I was sobbing, oversensitive, begging him to stop.
He finished with a roar, burying himself to the hilt and holding there, his whole body shuddering as he emptied into the condom. For a long moment, none of us moved, just the sound of ragged breathing filling the room.
Then Derek pulled out, discarding the condom, and collapsed beside me. "Still the best I ever had," he admitted, his hand finding my hip possessively.
But Marcus wasn't done.
He rolled me onto my back, his expression intense, focused. He'd watched me come apart for Derek, watched me scream another man's name, and now it was his turn to erase it.
"Mine," he said again, and this time there was no question in it.
He entered me slowly, reverently, his eyes locked on mine as he filled the space Derek had just vacated. Even through the sensitivity, the lingering ache, I felt myself responding to him—opening, welcoming, needing.
"Marcus," I whispered, reaching for him.
He captured my hands, pinning them above my head as he began to move. Where Derek had been hard and fast, Marcus was deep and deliberate, each thrust calculated to brush my prostate, to wind me up again even though I'd just come.
"I love you," he said, punctuating each word with a thrust. "I. Love. You."
"I love you too," I gasped, tears pricking my eyes at the sudden tenderness after Derek's brutality. "Marcus, I—"
"Shh," he soothed, his pace quickening. "Let me have you. Let me show you."
Derek watched from beside us, his hand idly stroking his own cock back to hardness. "Fuck, that's hot," he murmured. "The way he looks at you. Like you're everything."
"Because he is," Marcus said, not breaking rhythm. "My everything."
He made love to me with a ferocity that belied his words—hard enough to shake the bed, deep enough to make me cry out with each stroke, but always with that connection, that eye contact that said I see you, I choose you, you're mine.
I was hard again, impossibly, my cock trapped between our bodies, friction building with every movement. Marcus shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside me with unerring precision, and I felt another orgasm building—not the explosive, violent release Derek had forced from me, but something deeper, more profound.
"Come with me," Marcus urged, his own control fraying at the edges. "Come with me, baby. Show me I'm the one you want."
"You are," I promised, my voice breaking. "You are, Marcus, please—"
He kissed me as we came together, his release flooding me as my own spilled between us, hot and endless. He kept moving through it, milking every aftershock, until I was limp and whimpering beneath him, utterly spent.
When he finally pulled out, he didn't move away. He gathered me in his arms, holding me close, his heart hammering against my back. Derek watched us for a long moment, something like wistfulness in his eyes, then reached over to trace a finger down my cheek.
"You chose well," he told Marcus. "Take care of him."
"Always," Marcus promised.
We lay there in a tangle of limbs and sweat, the room smelling of sex and wine and something else—possession, claim, the dangerous edge of jealousy that had transformed into something else entirely. I was sore, marked, claimed by both men in different ways, and I'd never felt more satisfied.
But as I drifted toward sleep, sandwiched between their warm bodies, I knew this was only the beginning. Derek was staying the weekend. And we had two more days to explore whatever this was becoming.
Whatever lines we'd crossed tonight, there were more waiting. Deeper waters. Darker desires.
And I was ready to drown.
To be continued.
