The rain had been coming down steady all evening, tapping the big living room windows while jazz curled low from the sound system. Marcus sat in his favorite chair — a deep brown leather recliner that had molded to his frame over the years — legs stretched out, socked feet crossed at the ankle. A glass of Blanton’s sat in one hand, the other resting against the armrest, thumb tracing the seam absently as he thought.
Leah was on the couch across from him, legs tucked under her, wearing one of his old Tulane sweatshirts and nothing else. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulder as she scrolled on her phone. She looked comfortable, but Marcus knew her well enough to see that spark in her eyes — the kind that meant she was working something over in her mind.
It had been almost eight months since they’d last played with anyone else. The last guy had been… fine. Polite. Decent looking. Eager. But he’d been too focused on Leah, too forgettable in the ways that mattered. Marcus had gone through the motions that night, enjoying parts of it, but he’d never felt the rush — that perfect tension where he and another man moved in sync, pressing Leah from both sides until she was clawing at whoever she could reach.
They’d agreed to take a break after that one. No profiles, no messages, no late-night meetups. Just them.
But lately, the itch was back.
“Remember the loft in Midtown?” Leah said, breaking the quiet.
Marcus looked up. “Yeah.”
She smiled faintly. “That second time we saw Chris?”
Marcus’s mouth tilted in a slow grin. “The night you couldn’t walk straight after?”
Her laugh rolled soft and low. “That one. I was just thinking… we haven’t had a night like that in a while.”
Marcus took a sip of his bourbon. “We took a break for a reason.”
“I know,” she said, pulling one knee up under her sweatshirt so it rode higher on her thigh. “But I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time to try again. We’ve gotten better at knowing what we want — and what we don’t.”
He watched her for a moment, the way her green eyes held his like she was testing how far she could push. “You saying you’re ready to post again?”
“I’m saying,” she replied, “that maybe the right one’s out there if we’re specific enough this time.”
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Specific how?”
“No more rookies,” she said, ticking off points on her fingers. “He’s got to be able to hold his own in the conversation and the bedroom. He can’t be weird about you being involved. He needs to know what double play actually means — and not be shy about cocks touching through me.”
Marcus smirked at that last part. “You think we’ll get a lot of applicants?”
“I think we’ll get a lot of noise,” she said, “but maybe one will be worth answering.”
He let the thought sit for a beat. Eight months off had reminded him how much he loved having her all to himself — but it had also reminded him that there was something about a night with the right third man that rewired the air in the room. The energy shifted. They both became sharper, hungrier, more dangerous with each other afterward.
Finally, he said, “Write it.”
Leah pulled her laptop onto her knees, the glow lighting her face.
Professional couple. Tall, confident, discreet. Must know how to lead with both hands. Uninhibited. Clean. Into double play, double penetration, and pushing the limits without breaking them. If you don’t know what DVP is, don’t bother. If you think the husband won’t be part of it, keep scrolling.
She read it aloud and glanced at him over the screen. “Too much?”
Marcus took a slow sip. “Not enough. Add something about keeping it safe and quiet. That weeds out the idiots.”
Her fingers clicked a few more times before she hit post. She closed the laptop, set it aside, and curled back under the sweatshirt.
Marcus watched her shift, the hem riding high enough to show the curve of her bare hip.
“You know,” he said, “if we do this again, I’m not settling for fine.”
She smiled into her wine glass. “Good. Neither am I.”
Marcus’s hotel room in Chicago had that sterile, upscale feel — crisp white sheets, muted city noise outside, the soft hum of the mini-fridge. He’d kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and was halfway through a bourbon when the alert came in from the site.
Adrian – 35. Six-foot-two, lean muscle with a hard edge. Olive skin, close-cropped fade, forearms sleeved in black ink. His first photo wasn’t thirsty — just him in a black henley, cigar balanced between his fingers, amber liquor in front of him. His eyes had that relaxed focus of a man who didn’t need to prove himself.
“Read your post. I know exactly what DVP is. And I’m good at it.”
Marcus leaned back, thumbs moving.
“Where do you live?”
Adrian replied fast.
“Charlotte. In Atlanta half the month for work. Easy flight to you.”
From there, the conversation rolled. They traded stories — Marcus describing nights where he and another man had Leah pinned between them, Adrian talking about the way a woman’s body changes when she’s taking both men at once. They stayed in that lane — no flirting between them, just the shared language of men who knew how to work a woman as a team.
They talked rules: clean tests, no cameras, no bareback without proof, the husband stays involved, no jealousy.
The details got dirtier as the night went on. Marcus told him how Leah’s nails had dug into his thigh once while she was riding another man with Marcus filling her from behind. Adrian described the heat of being pressed cock-to-cock through a woman’s body, both of them pushing until she broke into helpless sounds.
By the time they wrapped, nearly three hours had passed. Marcus’s dick had been half-hard for most of it, heavy against his thigh under his slacks.
When he finally set his phone down, he sat there a moment, staring at the ceiling. The ache in him wasn’t going away. He undressed slow — jacket, tie, shirt — until he was down to his boxer briefs, the thick outline of him tenting the front.
Marcus was blessed — nine inches long, thick enough that Leah’s lips could barely seal around him, with a fat head that always swelled darker when he was turned on. His balls hung heavy beneath, pulled tight now with need.
He lay back on the bed, slid his briefs down, and wrapped one big, calloused hand around the base. A slow stroke up, thumb dragging across the head to spread the bead of pre-cum already there. He kept it lazy at first, eyes half-closed, replaying Adrian’s descriptions.
He worked himself with long, steady pulls, pausing to squeeze the base until the pressure made his abs tense. Then he’d start again, slower, letting the pleasure crawl. Every so often he’d stop completely, letting his cock throb against his stomach until the urge to keep going was almost too much.
Two hours passed like that — edge, pause, edge again. His thighs flexed and relaxed, his chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths. Sweat gathered along his collarbone and between his pecs.
When he finally let go, his hand worked faster, grip tightening, his head tipping back with a low growl. His balls pulled high, and then it hit — thick ropes of cum shooting across his abs, chest, even landing on his shoulder. He kept stroking through it, milking every last drop until he was slick and panting.
He lay there in the quiet after, heart steadying, cum cooling on his skin, knowing that meeting Adrian in person was now inevitable.
The Brass Room kept its secrets the way cathedrals kept incense—heavy in the air, laced into wood, alive in the corners. A brass plate on the door, a hostess with a practiced smile, jazz that curled like smoke and never raised its voice. Light pooled warm and low across dark tables and the deep backs of leather booths, catching cuffs and watch faces and the soft rise of steam from rocks glasses.
Marcus arrived early and took the corner booth that let him see the room and the door. Black slacks ran clean along his thighs, a charcoal shirt fit across his chest like a decision, one button undone. The silver thread in his beard was trimmed neat. The steel weight of his father’s watch caught the light when he lifted his glass.
He wasn’t nervous. He didn’t do nervous. He did assessments.
When Adrian walked in, he didn’t stop the room—he threaded it. Black sports coat over a fitted shirt, dark denim, boots that spoke in a quiet register against the floor. He took a breath just inside the door, eyes sweeping the space once. The recognition when he found Marcus was nothing more than a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
They shook hands. Warm, firm, a beat longer than polite.
“Bourbon?” Marcus asked, sliding the second glass across.
“Always,” Adrian said, easing out of his jacket and folding it once on the seat. Up close, he carried the same calm from his messages—unbothered, steady. Shoulders that filled the tee, chest set by work instead of posing, forearms veined and inked in clean lines. His eyes weren’t soft, but they were present.
They drank. Small talk traced travel and work, the map a man lays down to show where he moves and where he doesn’t. Marcus spoke about Nashville as home base. Adrian split time between Charlotte and Atlanta. Neither listed more than was needed. Neither pushed.
When the server brought the cigars, Marcus let the ritual slow everything down. He rolled the shoulder, found the seam by touch, made a clean cut, and warmed the foot with a patient flame until the leaf took and glowed. Adrian lit his with the same lack of theater. No flourish. Just the job done properly.
“I want to talk through how we work her,” Marcus said, not raising his voice. “Make sure we’re talking the same language.”
Adrian nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They built the picture without naming her. Marcus described positions: the stand behind, a palm at her belly to keep her in place, the slow press until her body stopped arguing. Adrian countered with the straddle start, hips open, angle clean, his hands guiding her breath when she needed to stop chasing and start receiving.
“Once she stops climbing,” Marcus said, “we lock the rhythm. Control before power.”
“She’ll ask for it,” Adrian said. Not bravado—knowledge. “When we’re in, if there’s contact through her, we don’t flinch. It’s part of the drive.”
They traded tells: the sound she made right before her body let go, the way her thighs locked when sensation felt like fear, the look in her eyes when she wanted to be told what to do. Marcus gave him Leah’s map without handing over her name: how she arched when her neck was kissed, how her nails dug into his thigh when she was almost there.
Adrian listened without interrupting, adding his own experience where it matched. Everything stayed on her. The shared goal. The shared execution.
The server refilled their glasses and left them alone. The ash grew and fell.
Marcus leaned back, resting the cigar between his fingers. “I don’t need fireworks out of you. I need steadiness. When she’s loud, you keep the tempo. When I cue left, you don’t go right.”
Adrian’s reply was simple. “Done. You call the start. I’ll lock in.”
Silence settled for a few beats, thick with mutual understanding. Then Adrian drained the last of his bourbon and set the glass down. “Give me a minute,” he said, sliding from the booth and taking his jacket toward the back.
Marcus watched him go. He wasn’t timing him, but he was aware of the clock. After a couple of minutes, Marcus rose, buttoned his jacket, and headed toward the restrooms.
The men’s room air was cooler, carrying the clean bite of soap and cedar. Two stalls anchored the far end, doors almost closed. One wasn’t empty.
The sound was subtle but unmistakable—the low, wet rhythm of a man who’d been trying not to and now had to. Flesh moving in a steady, urgent circle. Breath caught between teeth. A muted thud of a heel against tile.
Marcus stepped to the sink and turned the water on low, letting it run, eyes catching the movement in the mirror and through the gap under the stall. Adrian’s boots were planted wide, knees bent slightly for leverage. The shadow of his arm moved in a controlled rhythm.
Then Marcus saw it. Through that narrow strip, the scene was clear enough: Adrian’s fist wrapped around a cock that was a weapon in itself — a thick, veined 10.5 inches, easily 6 inches in girth. Even in his own grip it looked oversized, the fat crown flushed deep and slick, glinting with pre-cum in the dim light.
He wasn’t rushing. He was milking it, dragging his palm from the heavy root all the way up over the broad head, thumb pressing under the ridge before gliding back down. The skin pulled tight with each stroke, veins lifting along the shaft, girth so thick his fingers barely met. His other hand braced against the stall wall, forearm corded, shoulders rising slightly as he worked himself.
His breathing was controlled, but the small changes in pace betrayed him—shorter, faster strokes for a few seconds, then back to deep, slow pulls that made his abs flex. Every so often his grip would twist at the head, wringing another pulse of slick down the length.
Marcus dried his hands without hurry, watching the mirrored angle as Adrian’s thighs flexed and his knees locked. The strokes sharpened—five, six, seven quick pulls—before he slammed his fist to the base, squeezed, and released.
The climax hit hard. Thick ropes burst from the wide head in heavy, forceful spurts, splattering against tile and the toe of his boot, dripping in slow, glistening strings as the shaft throbbed in his fist. He held himself there, milking every last drop until the pulses faded.
The stall door stayed closed for a moment after. When it opened, Adrian stepped out, composed except for the color in his face. They met eyes in the mirror—no nod, no word, just the silent recognition of what Marcus had witnessed.
Marcus left first, holding the door on his way out.
Back at the booth, they finished their water and stood. The handshake was firm, decisive.
“Next Friday,” Marcus said. “My place. Seven fifteen for you, seven thirty for her.”
Adrian nodded once. “I’ll be ready.”
Outside, under the city’s wet light, Marcus texted Leah:
— He’s the one.
— Drinks next Friday. Seven thirty.
— Wear the red robe. Hair down. Vanilla and amber.
Her reply came quick:
— Knew it. I’m already wet.
— Make him earn it.
Marcus pocketed his phone, the plan settled in his bones. The next piece was in motion.
The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the rain tapping the kitchen windows. Marcus was at the counter, sleeves rolled to the forearms, pouring two glasses of red. The scent of seared lamb still lingered in the air.
Leah’s heels clicked across the hardwood before she came into view, suitcase in one hand, trench coat belted at the waist. Her hair was loose, still carrying a little of the airport’s static.
“You’re early,” Marcus said, setting her glass down.
“Missed my connection in Dallas. Took an earlier standby.” She dropped the suitcase by the stairs and crossed the room. “Missed you more, though.”
They kissed — not rushed, not polite. Her hand found his beard, his palm rested at the small of her back. When they parted, she kept her face close enough to feel his breath.
“So?” she asked. “How was he?”
Marcus took a slow sip of wine. “Steady. Knows when to speak, when to shut up. Knows how to listen.”
Her smile edged up on one side. “And?”
He let the pause work for him. “And I saw him in the restroom.”
Her brow arched. “Saw him?”
Marcus leaned a hip against the counter, watching her reaction. “Door was closed. Didn’t matter. He was working himself — slow, like he had all night. Thickest cock I’ve seen in a long time. Big enough it made his own hand look small.”
Leah’s lips parted, just slightly. “And you watched?”
“I did.” He took another drink, then set the glass aside. “Watched him milk it until he painted the tile. Never broke rhythm. Never rushed.”
Her coat belt came loose without her looking down. “You’re telling me this why?”
“Because you’re going to feel it.” He stepped forward, took the belt ends, and pulled the coat open. Black lace clung to her curves. “And I want you thinking about it when I’m inside you tonight.”
Her voice was low. “You sure you can compete?”
He smiled — the slow, dangerous one. “I’m not competing. I’m reminding you who runs this house.”
Marcus guided her back against the counter, kissing her harder now, his hand sliding down to cup her ass through the lace. She hooked a heel around his calf, pulling him closer. His other hand came up, fingers tangling in her hair, angling her head so his mouth could work her neck.
She gasped when his thumb traced the seam of her panties, the lace already damp. He didn’t move it aside yet — just pressed his palm there, letting her grind against it.
“You want my cock,” he said against her ear.
“Yes.”
“You’re going to take every inch, and you’re going to say my name, not his.”
Her hips rolled in answer.
He hooked a finger under the lace, dragging it down her thighs in one clean pull. She stepped out of them without breaking eye contact. He unzipped, freed himself — thick, hard, the head already flushed.
He lifted her onto the counter, parted her knees, and slid in with one slow, deliberate thrust that had her clutching his shoulders.
“Marcus—”
“That’s right,” he murmured, driving deeper. “Say it again.”
“Marcus.”
He fucked her there, standing, the rhythm steady and heavy. Each push forced a breath from her, each pull made her reach for more. He kept one hand at her throat, not squeezing, just holding her there — reminding her.
She came first, thighs locking around him, nails biting into his back. He kept going until he felt his own edge, pulling her closer, burying himself to the root as he spilled inside her.
They stayed like that for a moment, his forehead against hers, both catching breath.
When he finally eased out, he kissed her once more and smoothed her hair.
“Next Friday,” he said. “You’ll wear the robe. You’ll meet him. And you’ll remember tonight when he touches you.”
Leah’s smile was slow, knowing. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus poured the rest of the wine. The rain kept falling. The plan was still in motion.
The morning moved like a held breath.
Marcus woke before his alarm, staring at the ceiling, one hand behind his head, the other drifting idly to the warm spot where Leah’s leg hooked over his during the night. Her hair was a dark spill on the pillow; her mouth had that sleep-soft curve he loved. He didn’t wake her. He watched her breathe and counted out his plans in the quiet: coffee by seven, emails by eight, a run before nine to burn off the extra current running through him.
The group thread buzzed at 9:27.
Adrian: Touching base. Tonight still on?
Marcus waited a beat before answering, not because he needed to—because discipline was a habit.
Marcus: Dinner first. Drinks after. Come steady, not loud.
Leah rolled toward him, eyes half-open, reading over his shoulder. “I love when you act like HR for our sins,” she murmured, voice rough with waking.
He kissed her temple. “Somebody has to keep the calendar.”
Leah: Black dress. Hair down. Vanilla/amber. If he asks what that means, he’s out.
A typing bubble from Adrian, then: Noted. See you both at eight.
Marcus slid the phone aside and pulled Leah into him. They breathed together for a while, the simple intimacy of shared morning. When she finally slipped out of bed to shower, he lay there, eyes closed, replaying the restroom picture that had burrowed into him like a hook—Adrian’s boots braced, the rhythm in his forearm, the obscene weight of that 10.5, thick enough to swallow a fist. He didn’t feel threatened by it; he felt awakened by it. Leah would take it. He would make sure she did—steadily, safely, and in the way she’d ask for again.
The day met them like any other busy Friday—calls for him, client debriefs for her, a quick exchange of grocery texts (“limes?” “yes.” “more bourbon?” “obviously.”), and the practical choreography of a couple who ran both a home and a private theater of appetite. By late afternoon, the house felt like a set being dressed. Leah changed the sheets, diffused a thread of cedar and bergamot, set three weighted rocks glasses on the sideboard next to the cut-crystal decanter. Marcus checked the playlist—jazz that stayed in the background, bass you felt more than heard.
They got ready in parallel. Leah did her makeup at the vanity, the delicate, ruthless ritual that turned beauty into weapon: a precise wing, a soft mouth, the faintest highlight at the high points of cheek and collarbone. Marcus tied his watch strap, adjusted his collar. He watched her in the mirror for a moment—not the dress or the line of her legs, but the composure. He’d learned that what made her devastating was not what she wore; it was the certainty with which she inhabited it.
At 7:40, they stood in the kitchen. He took her by the hips and drew her in between his knees where he sat at the island stool. The black dress was spare and elegant, a clean line that framed the soft curve of her breasts and the powerful sweep of her thighs. Vanilla and amber breathed off her skin like a secret.
“Last check,” he said, voice low. “We set the tempo. He follows.”
Leah’s smile was small and bright. “I know, Marcus.”
“And if the read is off?”
“We end it,” she said, not as a question. “But it won’t be.”
He felt the clean click of that answer in his chest.
8:06 PM — Arrival
Adrian knocked once—no doorbell—and stepped back, hands empty, posture easy. The black henley under a dark sport coat, jeans the right side of fitted, boots polished. Confidence without theater. Marcus liked the restraint. Leah liked the way the coat pulled across his chest when he breathed.
“Good to see you,” Marcus said, offering his hand like he would to a new partner. Firm, steady. The eye contact held a beat and let go.
“Likewise,” Adrian said, then turned to Leah. “You must be the reason we’re all here.”
Leah’s laugh edged between polite and predatory. “Guilty.”
She took her wrap and purse, and the three of them slipped into the mild night. The ride downtown was soft conversation punctuated by the glow of passing lights. Leah sat in the back between them, a knee angled toward each man, the ambient warmth radiating off her a deliberate, quiet incitement.
8:47 PM — The Lounge
They took the same corner table as always, where the light fell like honey and the room’s hum felt like privacy rather than noise. The hostess knew Marcus’s name and his preference for low tables. A server approached—a woman with quick eyes—and knew better than to chatter.
“Whiskey,” Marcus said. “Rye for the first round.”
“Rum neat,” Adrian added.
“Champagne,” Leah said, because she liked the way it rewrote her breath.
Glasses arrived, condensation pooling like parentheses on the coasters. They touched nothing for a moment. The night set its weight down on the table between them.
Small talk arced into something real without the jerky shift most people needed. Marcus asked Adrian about his week and listened to the answer. Adrian asked Leah about the Miami launch and listened, not interrupting the way men often did when women spoke about work. Leah tested the edges more than the content—she watched for impatience, vanity, the soft coercions that had ended other nights before they began. Adrian gave her none.
Cigars came out because ritual is a language. Marcus cut and toasted with the unshowy precision of a man who thinks with his hands. Adrian lit without flourish. Leah didn’t smoke, but she liked the way it looked—the held ember at the margin of the masculine, the slow draw, the curl of smoke between sentences. It made everything feel deliberate.
When the second round arrived, Marcus allowed their talk to tack closer to the reason they were there. He didn’t name it. He simply asked questions that made space: “When a woman pushes back from too much sensation, what do you do with that energy?” “How long do you hold before you press again?” “What do you do when her mouth is chasing and her hips want to run?”
Adrian’s answers were measured and specific—“Ground her breath with your hand under her jaw,” “Give her a count to lean against,” “Keep her eyes on her husband if she needs a pole star.” He didn’t dress his knowledge up. He used short sentences, the way men do when they trust what they’re saying.
Leah sat between them and let her body talk for her. When she approved of an answer, her foot slid half an inch closer to Marcus’s calf. When she wanted to test something, she turned her shoulder to Adrian, baring the long line of her throat, as if to ask, Where do your hands go now? He answered without touching—two fingers poised in the air, the ghost of a grip at the angle of her jaw. She smiled like a woman who’d already felt it.
Time lengthened. They ordered nothing quickly. The room gentled itself around them.
Leah leaned in. “You mentioned you like to start flat, let her set the depth.” She took a sip of champagne and let it sit on her tongue. “What do you do when she asks for more than she can take?”
Adrian didn’t look at Marcus as he answered. “I remind her that asking is the easy part.” Then he turned his head and did meet Marcus’s eyes. “Giving it is the work.”
Marcus felt the click of alignment, the way you do when the map matches the road. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
Leah excused herself to refresh her lipstick. She dropped a hand on Marcus’s shoulder as she stood; the weight of her fingers was a promise. She let her palm graze Adrian’s sleeve as she passed; the touch was an examination. Then she was a dark line walking through the rooms, the swing of her hips ticking like a metronome they were both trying not to hear.
9:21 PM — The Back Hall
Silence has different flavors. The one that fell after Leah left was not awkward. It was weighted.
Adrian rested his cigar in the tray, watched the ember pulse and dim. He leaned back, palms open on his thighs, posture reading readiness rather than ease. He didn’t fill the space with talk. Marcus appreciated the mercy of it.
“She’s decisive,” Adrian said eventually.
Marcus took a slow drink. “She is.”
“You are, too.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
They left it there. When Leah was gone long enough to feel like an invitation to breathe, Marcus lifted his glass, finished his rye, and stood. “I’ll check on her.”
The corridor to the restrooms and the humidor bent around the lounge like a secret. It smelled like cedar and something cooler, a subtle draft that carried whispers farther than voices. Marcus walked the length at an unhurried pace. Somewhere behind him, Adrian’s steps matched his cadence and faded to a lean against the wall. Neither man spoke. In the polished glass of a framed label, Marcus could see the ghost of Adrian’s posture—shoulder to the wall, head slightly bowed, hands loose. It was not deference. It was control at rest.
Leah rounded the corner at the end of the hall, lipstick new, eyes bright, the swing of her dress translating directly into the tempo of Marcus’s pulse. As she passed Marcus, she brushed her fingers along his knuckles, a signal only he could read. When she passed Adrian, she skimmed him with a glance that contained measurement and heat in equal parts. She didn’t stop. She led them back into the room with the simple authority of a woman who knew both men would follow.
They did.
10:12 PM — The Ride
They left the lounge in a pocket of cool air. Outside, the streetlights made ribbons on the wet pavement. Marcus opened the car door for Leah and let Adrian take the passenger seat without being asked. The small choreography mattered. Leah’s hand found Marcus’s thigh as he pulled into traffic; her thumb tapped once, twice, three times, then stilled—their private code for ready, steady, press.
Adrian looked out the window like the city was an instrument he’d learned to play. “You two run a clean field,” he said, not looking back.
Leah’s laugh was soft and edged. “We like tidy chaos.”
“Nobody bleeds,” Marcus said.
“Nobody breaks,” Adrian added.
They didn’t talk about sex on the drive back. They talked about the weather and a new restaurant downtown and a song Leah loved years ago that had somehow found them again on the radio. The conversation set the pulse lower, which is what they needed. Anticipation rots if you poke it too much. You open the jar, you smell it, you close it, you wait.
10:41 PM — Home
The house welcomed them in that way homes do when they’ve known the people who live in them long enough to have learned their steps. Marcus held the door; Leah moved through. She set her purse on the console table and, without turning, said, “Drinks in the living room. I’m going to change.”
She disappeared down the hall—the swish of fabric, the slide of a zipper—and left the men in a calm neither tried to fill. Marcus poured. He offered around; they each took a glass. The ice chimed once and stopped.
“She likes red,” Adrian said, eyes on the hallway, a statement more than a question. “The robe.”
Marcus didn’t confirm. He didn’t have to. “You have questions now is the time.”
Adrian took a measured sip. “One. If she tries to turn the night into something cute because she’s nervous, you want me to cut through or let it run?”
“Cut,” Marcus said. “Kindly.”
“Copy.”
They didn’t talk about feelings. They agreed on logistics: shoes off in the bedroom, phones on the sideboard, words clear and unambiguous. Marcus watched Adrian’s face as they set the small rules. He looked like a man tightening the laces before a long run.
Leah’s footsteps returned. The sound hit Marcus first, then the scent—vanilla warmed by skin, the amber deepened by the heat of motion. She came into view not in the red robe but in black silk that fell soft over her shoulders and ended mid-thigh, tied at the waist with a narrow belt. Her legs were bare; her hair was down and still a little damp from the shower she’d taken out from under the lounge’s perfume. The light from the floor lamp turned her skin into something you wanted to taste.
“Hi,” she said, as if she weren’t the reason the night had a spine.
Adrian’s eyes tracked her like a pilot reads instruments—attentive, not hungry. “You look,” he said, and searched for a word that wasn’t cliché. “Prepared.”
Leah’s laugh was a small silver thing. “I am.”
She sat on the edge of the low couch, knees parted an inch, hands folded loosely between them. Marcus took his place to her right, as he always did, a hand on the back of the couch. Adrian sat opposite, not too close. He set his glass on the table, palms clean on his knees, and waited.
Leah let the silence ride long enough to stretch, then snapped it with the softest movement—a fingertip drawing a small circle on the inside of her wrist as she looked at Adrian. “Marcus told me you’re steady.”
“I am,” Adrian said.
“He told me you don’t flinch.”
“I don’t.”
“He told me you came in the lounge bathroom.” Her eyes never left his. “And that you left a mess you weren’t embarrassed about.”
Adrian’s mouth tilted a fraction. “I did.”
Leah looked down at her wrist like it had become interesting. When she lifted her chin again, her eyes had warmed. “Good.”
Marcus watched the exchange like a chess player who likes the board he’s built. He leaned in and spoke to Leah without looking away from Adrian. “Stand up.”
She did.
“Come here.”
She crossed to him and stepped between his knees. The robe parted an inch with the movement; the scent of her rose like the first bar of a favorite song. Marcus untied the belt and let the silk fall open. She was bare under it. The sound that left Adrian was not a sound, exactly. It was the absence of one—a held inhale.
Marcus kissed the notch of Leah’s collarbone. “We’re going to talk a few more minutes,” he said against her skin. “Then you’ll go to the bedroom and wait.”
She nodded, breath touching his cheek.
He let the robe fall closed and sent her back to the couch with a touch at the small of her back. Then he looked at Adrian like a commander confirming the plan just once before the door opened.
“Here’s how this starts,” Marcus said. “I’ll sit on the edge of the bed. She comes to me first. You take the chair by the window and watch for three minutes. Not four. Three. You watch her breath, her tells. When I say ‘with me,’ you come to the left side of the bed and you touch her only where I’m not touching. We double-team her mouth first—her mind needs the discipline—then we move. You will not ask to switch. I will move you when it’s time.”
Adrian didn’t look excited. He looked attentive. “Understood.”
Leah had her eyes closed, listening with her whole body. When she opened them, she added the only line she needed to say: “If I put my hand on either of you, it’s a request, not a command.”
Marcus touched her knee. “Correct.”
The room held very still for a long heartbeat. The playlist slid into something with brushes on snare and a bass line that made the floor feel warm.
Marcus stood.
“Go wait,” he told Leah.
She swallowed, a delicate movement at the line of her throat, and walked down the hallway, bare feet silent on wood. Halfway to the bedroom, she paused and looked back over her shoulder, the robe a dark river hugging her body. The glance landed on both men—a permission and a challenge—and then she was gone.
The silence behind her was not empty. It was crowded with what-comes-next.
Marcus drained the last of his bourbon and set the glass down. He checked the time not because he needed the numbers, but because ritual steadied his hands. He toed off his shoes, loosened his collar, and rolled his sleeves to the elbow—the domestic version of armor.
“Ready?” he asked.
Adrian stood and slid out of his sport coat, folding it once on the back of the chair. He checked nothing else. “Ready.”
They walked the hallway side by side, not touching, the air between them disciplined and charged, the kind of space that can be held only by men who know exactly why they’re there.
Marcus put his hand on the bedroom door, felt the hum in the wood as if the house itself had caught the beat. He pressed it open.
Leah sat on the edge of the bed, robe parted to mid-thigh, eyes shining, mouth parted, breath already a little high.
And that was where the night began.
Marcus eased the bedroom door wider with the heel of his hand. Leah sat where he’d told her to sit—on the edge of the bed, knees parted, robe fallen open to mid-thigh, eyes shining, breath already a touch high. The low lamp turned her skin into warm gold.
“Hands behind,” he said.
She slid them back and laced her fingers together, shoulders drawing her breasts up in a quiet offer. Marcus stepped in close enough that she could smell the clean spice of his soap; Adrian took the chair by the window as planned, silent, posture attentive, the big frame of him cutting a dark line against the glass.
Marcus hooked a finger under Leah’s chin, lifting. “Color?”
“Green,” she whispered, voice steady, pupils blown.
“Safeword?”
“Amber.”
“Good girl.” He traced her mouth with his thumb and watched her tongue meet it, her lips closing around the pad and sucking once. He smiled—small, private. “With me.”
Leah let him pull her up to kneel at the edge of the mattress. Marcus stood and unbuckled his belt without hurry, the soft click of the prong a metronome. His cock freed heavy and thick, the head flushed dark. He didn’t offer it. He held it at the base and watched her look at it, hunger and obedience warring on her face until obedience won.
“Open,” he said.
Her mouth did, slow, lips soft, tongue flat. He slid in, shallow at first—just the head, letting her feel the weight—and then deeper until her throat opened for him. He groaned low, the kind of approval she wore like a medal. One hand rested at the back of her head, not forcing, just keeping her there while his hips set a deliberate pace.
“Eyes up,” he murmured.
She found his gaze and held it, cheeks hollowing, saliva slicking down the thick length to his fist. He used her like that—measured, owned, making her breathe around him—then withdrew with a wet sound and cupped her jaw.
“Now him,” Marcus said, without looking away from her. “Hands still behind.”
Adrian hadn’t moved; he didn’t need to be told twice. He rose, tugged the henley over his head, and the lamp found the planes of his chest, the ink on his forearms. He stepped in front of her and unzipped. The weight of him spilled into his palm—ten and a half inches, wide as a fist, thick veins like cords under his skin. Leah’s breath caught; Marcus heard it.
“Look at what you asked for,” Marcus said softly. “Look at what you’re going to take.”
Leah nodded once. She opened for Adrian like she had for Marcus, but the size made her mouth shape around him, lips stretched, jaw flexing. Adrian didn’t piston. He set his hand under her jaw, thumb at her throat, and guided rhythm—slow, deep, a fraction deeper each pass, watching her eyes for the moment her body surrendered to it. When saliva spilled over her lip and down her chin, Marcus used his thumb to smear it along her cheek, reverent in a way that only looked rough.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Stop.”
Leah sat back on her heels, breathing loud through her nose, chin wet, eyes glassy. Marcus kissed the slick corner of her mouth and turned her gently by the shoulder until her back met his chest.
“Hands in front,” he said, and she obeyed, presenting herself—obedient and bare.
“Her back,” Marcus told Adrian. “Hold her open.”
Adrian’s big hands slid around her waist and down to her thighs, thumbs parting her slick folds. She trembled. Marcus took himself in hand and dragged the broad head along her, up and down, spreading her wetness until the room smelled like heat. He pressed at her entrance and paused.
“Breathe,” he said.
She did. He pushed, slow, deeper, until he was buried, hips flush. She gasped, nails biting her own forearms to keep her hands where he’d put them. Marcus didn’t move. He let her feel full. He let her know she was owned.
“Eyes on him,” he said, nodding toward Adrian.
She lifted her head and met Adrian’s gaze; the look that passed between them was not romantic—it was contract. He bent, took himself in his fist, and slid the fat crown down the wet line of her split, pressing it to her stretched, full opening where Marcus filled her. She made a broken sound at the thought alone.
Marcus kissed her shoulder. “DVP,” he murmured, like a benediction. “Ask nicely.”
“Please,” Leah breathed. “Please, let me.”
“Good girl,” Marcus said, and braced his feet.
Adrian pressed. The give at the entrance resisted, then yielded around the second crown. Leah’s breath stuttered; Marcus’s hand flattened on her belly to keep her from fleeing from the stretch. Slow, patient, deliberate—Adrian fed her inch by inch until the thick weight of him seated just inside. Marcus felt it—heat and pressure and the undeniable glide of two cocks crowding the same silk channel.
“Don’t run,” Marcus said into her neck.
“I won’t,” she whispered, not sure if she believed herself until his palm pressed lower and she did.
They moved small. Not greed—geometry. Marcus rocked shallow, a thumb’s depth, and waited; Adrian answered with a matched half-inch. The sensation was obscene: friction through wet heat and the flex of each other, their shafts kissing through the thin wall inside her. Leah’s mouth fell open and stayed that way, a faint keening sound leaving her with every shared glide.
“Count,” Marcus said.
“One,” she exhaled, as Marcus pressed.
Adrian answered, “Two.”
“Three,” on Marcus. “Four,” on Adrian.
She lost numbers and found something more useful—obedience. Marcus dragged a hand to her throat and held her there, thumb under her jaw, keeping her eyes where he wanted. Sweat slicked the hollow of her back; Adrian’s forearms trembled with control. They kept the rhythm small and cruel, a relentless grind that forced her to feel everything until her legs shook and her voice cracked on the breath that didn’t know whether it was a sob or a laugh.
“Hold,” Marcus ordered, and all three stilled—Leah impaled, both men pulsing against each other inside her. The stillness was worse than motion. It made her plead.
“Please, sir.”
Marcus smiled against her ear. “You’ll get what you earn.”
He eased out, slow, leaving her to pant around the heavy single fullness that remained. Adrian withdrew too, the fat head stroking the rim like a promise before sliding free. Leah shivered at the sudden emptiness and reached blindly. Marcus slapped her hand lightly.
“Hands on the mattress,” he said. “Face down, ass up.”
She folded onto her elbows and arched, presenting herself beautifully: back a clean bow, ass high, thighs parted. Marcus palmed one cheek and then the other, the sound a muted clap in the warm room. He dragged the head of his cock lower and pressed to her tightest place.
Leah turned her head, cheek to sheet, eyes on him. “Yes, sir,” she said, voice small and burning.
“Good,” he said, and pushed.
The ring resisted, then gave, the stretch a hot, bright ache that she breathed through with little broken sounds. Marcus stilled, hand firm on her hip, letting her adjust to the thick intrusion. He’d always been too much for most; for her, he was exactly the line she liked to toe. He rolled his hips a fraction, testing her, and her fingers clenched the sheets.
“Green?” he asked.
“Green,” she gasped, and he moved—long, slow, greedy strokes into her ass, the friction dirty and perfect. He set a pace that bordered on cruel and then pulled it back before it tipped. Control was the point. Not speed.
“Your turn,” he said over his shoulder without looking, voice still even. “Front.”
Adrian was already there, hand at Leah’s jaw, guiding her mouth open. He fed her just the head, then another inch, letting her learn the new angle while Marcus filled her from behind. The sound that fell from her was pure surrender; spit slicked down Adrian’s shaft, thick ropes of saliva connecting her lips to his veined length when he slid out to let her breathe.
Marcus changed the angle and thrust deeper; Leah moaned around Adrian and took him farther in reflex. The sight snapped something. Adrian’s hips punched forward and then froze, both hands cradling her face as he held her at depth. Marcus’s hand closed hard on her hip, owning the rhythm.
They kept her like that—used, filled at both ends—until Marcus pulled free abruptly and palmed her lower back.
“Up,” he said, and guided her to straddle Adrian’s lap on the edge of the bed. Adrian’s cock stood slick and iron-hard between them, thick crown nudging her opening. Marcus reached between and held the base steady; Leah sank down, slow, the stretch deep and decadent as that wide girth disappeared into her. She whimpered, nails digging into Adrian’s shoulders. He didn’t move. He let her—which was another kind of dominance.
“Good girl,” Marcus breathed. “Stay.”
She panted, full and trembling, as Marcus crouched. Without warning, he bent and sealed his mouth around the place where Adrian’s shaft disappeared into her, tongue sliding along the wet seam, tasting her, tasting him, tasting them together. Adrian’s head dropped back with a ragged curse. Leah cried out, a bright, high sound that shook.
Marcus’s mouth worked there in obscene, wet circles, and then he did the thing neither had expected: he slid his lips down Adrian’s slick length, swallowing until he felt the wide crown press the roof of his mouth. He groaned low—vibration that rolled through Leah’s body and made Adrian jerk.
“Fuck,” Adrian hissed, hand fisting in Marcus’s hair in a grip that wasn’t a command so much as an anchor. Leah clutched his shoulders and trembled.
Marcus came off with a wet pop and licked the thick shaft like a prize, eyes up. “Focus,” he said to Adrian, as if he hadn’t just blown lightning through the room. “With me.”
He stood and lined himself behind Leah again. “Lift,” he told her, and she rose a fraction. He pressed to her slick ass and pushed in, the hot ring yielding as he made them three again—Adrian thick and deep in her pussy, Marcus filling her ass until she had no place inside that wasn’t them.
DP.
Leah’s mouth fell open on a sound that wasn’t a word. Adrian’s hands branded her hips from the front; Marcus’s palms clamped on her waist. They held her there, not moving, until the tremble in her thighs started to look like panic. Marcus kissed her shoulder and breathed a single word into her skin.
“Mine.”
He started first—small, precise strokes that fed just the head in and out of the tight heat. Adrian matched him, a counter-rhythm that made the friction inside her unbearable. Their cocks slid against each other through the thin wall, pressure and heat stacking on pressure and heat until Leah thought her nervous system would short.
She broke. Not loudly. Completely. The climax took her like a tide, rolling up from where they filled her, locking her spine, bowing her back, tearing a sound out of her that Marcus had been hunting all night. The men held her through it—Marcus’s arm banded under her ribs, Adrian’s hands keeping her from flying apart. They didn’t chase their own release. Not yet. They used hers—rode it, fed it, stretched it until she sobbed and said please without words.
“Living room,” Marcus said, sudden and calm, like he was calling a play. He slid out; Adrian followed, both men slick and shining with her. Leah sagged, trembling, and Marcus scooped her up with an ease that always surprised her. She folded into him, face on his chest, smelling sweat and bourbon and the heat of the room.
Adrian grabbed the glasses off the dresser without thinking—tidy chaos—and followed.
They crossed the hall and the house opened around them: lamp low, couch a dark line, the rug thick under bare feet. Marcus set Leah on the rug, kneeling, silk robe hanging open. She stayed where he placed her—submissive and luminous.
“Hands behind again,” Marcus said. She obeyed, shoulders rolling back, nipples hard in the cool living room air.
“Eyes on me,” he told Adrian. “We finish her together.”
They took positions that made geometry a sin. Adrian stood in front of Leah and offered himself, the wide head resting against her lips. She opened, no hesitation now, taking him deep until her throat fluttered around the thickness. Marcus knelt behind and slid two slick fingers into her, gentle, preparing her tightest place again because care is what lets you be cruel. When she relaxed, he replaced fingers with cock—pushing slow, filling her ass to the root until his hips kissed her cheeks.
He didn’t move. He made her take a deep breath around Adrian and feel it—the double fullness at her deepest places, both men claiming her from opposite poles.
“Look at me,” Marcus said to Leah, though she had a mouthful of Adrian. She lifted her eyes, watering with the depth, and he read everything there—need, surrender, pride in her obedience. He smiled, a wolf with a wedding band. “Now.”
He fucked her in a steady, hips-low rhythm that mined the nerve-rich front wall of her ass; every glide of him pushed her mouth deeper on Adrian. Adrian held her face, thumbs stroking her jaw as he fed her the fat length she’d begged for all week. They set a shared beat and didn’t break it. Leah’s sounds were strangled around Adrian’s cock; the room was full of wet and breath and the dull slap of body on body.
Marcus felt her start to seize again, muscles fluttering around him, the tremor that meant the edge was a step away. He reached under, flattened his palm to her belly, and pressed, pinning her to the cock inside her. Leah’s eyes rolled, hands fighting not to fly out of their bound position.
“Don’t move,” Marcus said, and she didn’t, and that obedience became the fuse.
Adrian’s breath shortened. “Close,” he bit out, the tendons in his neck standing.
“Hold,” Marcus warned, ruthless.
She shook, held, and the pressure became pain-sweet and the pain became need and the need became the only thing in the room. When Marcus decided she’d earned it, he pushed her the last inch—hips grinding, palm firm, voice in her ear like a command spelled out on her skin.
“Come for me.”
Leah shattered. Not a pretty orgasm; a convulsion, a tear, a complete surrender that ripped through every muscle. Her throat closed around Adrian and drew a broken curse from him; her ass clamped on Marcus like a fist. The men lost it then—Adrian first, groaning low, flooding her mouth with thick pulses that she took with her eyes wet and wide; Marcus a heartbeat after, buried in her ass, spilling deep with a ragged sound that was part triumph, part relief.
He didn’t pull out.
He held. He made her feel it: Adrian’s last throb on her tongue, the heat filling her behind, the way her own climax ricocheted through the cage of his arms and the brand of his hand.
Silence poured in. Hot. Glorious. Full of heartbeats.
Marcus eased out gently, catching the mess with his palm, and guided Leah forward onto hands and knees. “Stay,” he said, voice gone tender around the edges. He bent and put his mouth on her—there—licking her open, eating himself and Adrian out of her with the reverence of a man who knows this is what aftercare looks like. Leah moaned, low and ruined. Adrian watched, chest heaving, eyes gone dark with something like awe.
Marcus kissed up her spine in slow stamps—the small of her back, the point between her shoulder blades, the soft nape at her hairline—then gathered her by the chin and brought her mouth to his. She tasted all three of them on his tongue and kissed back like a woman claiming what she’d taken. When he let her go, she turned and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to Adrian’s mouth. He didn’t chase it. He received it, a quiet wordless yes passing between them.
They collapsed into the couch in a spill of limbs and breath and heat. Marcus pulled Leah into his lap; Adrian sat close enough that their knees brushed and no one moved away. The lamp hummed. The house settled.
After a while, Marcus spoke, voice low, the commander back under the man. “We ended the break tonight.”
Leah’s smile was small and dangerous. “We did.”
Adrian’s mouth curved. “So what’s next?”
Marcus let the question hang, then kissed Leah’s temple. “Next time, we don’t rush the first hour. We blindfold her. We make the house a map she learns by touch. And we invite… options.”
Leah’s eyes sparked. “Options?”
“Maybe a fourth for a night,” Marcus said, like he was talking about a wine pairing. “Or maybe not. Maybe we just find out how much more you can take when you can’t see it coming.”
Leah’s laugh was hoarse and happy. “Yes, sir.”
Adrian leaned back, gaze on the doorway like he could already see another edge they hadn’t walked. “I’ll clear my calendar.”
The three of them sat there, cooling sweat turning their skin into new silk, the room thick with the iron scent of sex and the soft promise of what they’d make next. Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, something new had settled—an arrangement, a permission, a beginning that didn’t need to announce itself.
They hadn’t planned a series. But the night had written one anyway.
And they were just getting warmed up.
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