Page 33 of Puck You Both

For me. That's a performance, and I'm the audience. He drags his shirt higher with one hand, baring flushed skin all the way up his ribs, letting me see exactly what Patrick's mouth is doing to him, and the sound he makes next is louder than anything he's allowed himself all night.

I'm watching, and he knows. And he likes it. My cock jerks against my palm so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek.

Patrick opens his eyes.

They lift over Theo's hip, dark blue and entirely unsurprised, and find me exactly where he told me to be. And now all three of us are looking. And nobody stops. Patrick keeps sucking, slow and deep. Theo keeps grinding into it, watching me watch him. And my hand keeps moving, because it stopped taking my calls minutes ago. Patrick's gaze drops, half a second, to my hand, to what I’m doing, then climbs back to my face.

And stays.

The room goes unbearably sharp. Just the wet rhythm of his mouth and my pulse slamming in my throat and behind my zipper at once. I'm not touching either of them, and somehow I'm inside the circuit anyway, pleasure climbing my spine with fear packed in right beside it, and I can't find the seam where one ends.

My body picks pleasure. It's been picking pleasure all night.

Patrick pulls off, slow, lips dragging to the tip, a strand of saliva stretching between them until it breaks. His fist takes over, slick and unhurried, while Theo swears at the ceiling in two languages. Then, still looking at me, in the same even tone he used against my ear downstairs:

"You can come now."

I don't know who he's talking to.

The sentence hangs in the lamplight, his eyes on me and his hand on Theo, and both possibilities go off in my body at once.

Theo answers first. Patrick's mouth closes back over him and he comes on the spot, spine bowing, a cry tearing loose past every ration he's kept all night. And even now, even mid-orgasm, his eyes find me again, glazed and half-open, watching me watch him finish. Patrick's cheeks hollow. He swallows. He doesn't stop looking at me while he does it.

And I'm right behind them. My hand has gone still, just pressure now, and it doesn't matter. The heat is already gathering at the base of my spine, my balls drawn tight, the edge rushing up to meet me, and the next thought lands like a hit from behind: I am about to come in my pants. Standing in a doorway, watched by both of them. Because of both of them, and that can't be explained away, ever. There's no version of me that survives it becoming a fact.

My legs decide before I finish deciding.

I spin around and run.

My shoulder takes a piece of the doorframe with it. Three strides down the hall, hand fumbling the bathroom door because my fingers have resigned. Somewhere behind me Theo's still coming, another broken sound with something low and satisfied underneath it that I refuse to identify as Patrick, and then I'm inside, the lock clicks, and I grab the sink with both hands.

I hold on to it like it’s a railing on a sinking ship.

My cock is trapped hard against my zipper, throbbing on every heartbeat, briefs damp where the head's been leaking. Coming would take five seconds. Maybe three. The door is locked, the privacy is total, and my hand already knows the rhythm because it spent five minutes learning it from Patrick's mouth.

You can come now.

He might have meant me.

He looked at me and said it and he might have meant me.

My right hand leaves the porcelain, drops to my fly, and I catch it at the button.

No.

Because if I unzip, this becomes intentional. The last ten minutes I can still write off as an ambush. Wrong door, high adrenaline, a body in an unregulated environment. But locking myself in a bathroom and coming into my fist over the specific memory of Patrick's throat and Theo's eyes—

No. We are not entering that into evidence.

I put the hand back on the sink.

In the mirror: a flushed lunatic with fading red hair, wet at the collar, pupils blown. I look deranged.

Water. Water will fix me. I run the tap, shove my hand under it and splash my face until my shirt is spotted dark. Cold water turns out to be medical propaganda. My breathing settles inside two minutes. My hard-on treats the entire intervention as background noise.

Mounted beside the mirror is a soap dispenser. FOAMING HAND WASH. CITRUS. I read the label eleven times. Citrus carries no dangerous associations. Foaming is questionable after what I just watched, but I breathe through it.

At some point, the sounds from the office stopped. I don't know when. I was busy standing over a sink with both hands displayed like a suspect proving he's unarmed, actively not jerking off, waiting out the single hardest thing I have ever done sexually.